"Live," said the Conqueror, "live to share
The trophies and the crowns I bear!
Silent that youthful warrior stood-
Silent he pointed to the flood
All crimson with his country's blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart
For answer, to th' Invader's heart.

False flew the shaft, though pointed well;
The Tyrant liv'd, the Hero fell!-

Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay,

And, when the rush of war was past, Swiftly descending on a ray

Of morning light, she caught the last-
Last glorious drop his heart had shed
Before its free-born spirit fled!

"Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight,
"My welcome gift at the Gates of Light.
Though foul are the drops that oft distil
On the field of warfare, blood like this,
"For Liberty shed, so holy is,

It would not stain the purest rill,

That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss!

O, if there be, on this earthly sphere,

A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,

'Tis the last libation Liberty draws

From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!"

"Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave The gift into his radiant hand, Sweet is our welcome of the Brave

Who die thus for their native Land.

But see-alas!-the crystal bar

Of Eden moves not-holier far

Than ev'n this drop the boon must be,

That opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee!"

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,
Now among Afric's lunar Mountains,

Far to the South, the Peri lighted;

And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains Of that Egyptian tide-whose birth

Is hidden from the sons of earth

Deep in those solitary woods,

Where oft the Genii of the Floods

Dance round the cradle of their Nile,

And hail the new-born Giant's smile.

"Poor race of men!" said the pitying Spirit, Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall

Some flow'rets of Eden ye still inherit,

But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!"

She wept-the air grew pure and clear
Around her, as the bright drops ran;
For there's a magic in each tear,

Such kindly Spirits weep for man!

Just then beneath some orange trees,
Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze
Were wantoning together, free,
Like age at play with infancy-
Beneath that fresh and springing bower,
Close by the Lake she heard the moan
Of one who, at this silent hour,

Had thither stol'n to die alone.
One who in life, where'er he moved,
Drew after him the hearts of many;
Yet now, as though he ne'er were lov'd,
Dies here unseen, unwept by any!
None to watch near him-none to slake
The fire that in his bosom lies,
With ev'n a sprinkle from that lake,
Which shines so cool before his eyes.
No voice, well known through many a day,
To speak the last, the parting word,
Which, when all other sounds decay,
Is still like distant music heard;-
That tender farewell on the shore
Of this rude world, when all is o'er,
Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown Dark.

But see who yonder comes by stealth,
This melancholy bower to seek,
Like a young envoy sent by Health,
With rosy gifts upon her cheek?
'Tis she-far off, through moonlight dim,
He knew his own betrothed bride,
She, who would rather die with him,
Than live to gain the world beside!—
Her arms are round her lover now,

His livid cheek to hers she presses,
And dips, to bind his burning brow,

In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses.

Ah! once, how little did he think

An hour would come when he should shrink With horror from that dear embrace,

Those gentle arms, that were to him

Holy as is the cradling place

Of Eden's infant cherubim!
And now he yields-now turns away,
Shuddering as if the venom lay
All in those proffer'd lips alone-
Those lips that, then so fearless grown,

Never until that instant came
Near his unask'd or without shame.

She fails-she sinks-as dies the lamp
In charnel airs, or cavern damp,

So quickly do his baleful sighs
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes.
One struggle-and his pain is past-
Her lover is no longer living!
One kiss the maiden gives, one last,
Long kiss, which she expires in giving!

แ 'Sleep," said the Peri, as softly she stole
The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul,
As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast-
"Sleep on, in visions of odor rest,
In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd
Th' enchanted pile of that lonely bird,
Who sings at the last his own death lay,
And in music and perfume dies away!"
Thus saying, from her lips she spread

Unearthly breathings through the place,
And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed
Such lustre o'er each paly face,

That like two lovely saints they seem'd
Upon the eve of doomsday taken
From their dim graves, in odor sleeping;

While that benevolent Peri beam'd

Like their good angel, calmly keeping

Watch o'er them till their souls would waken.

But morn is blushing in the sky;

Again the Peri soars above,

Bearing to Heav'n that precious sigh

Of pure, self-sacrificing love.

High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate,

Th' Elysian palm she soon shall win,

For the bright spirit at the gate
Smil'd as she gave that offering in:

And she already hears the trees

Of Eden, with their crystal bells Ringing in that ambrosial breeze

That from the throne of Alla swells; And she can see the starry bowls

That lie around that lucid lake,

Upon whose banks admitted Souls

Their first sweet draught of glory take!
But, ah! even Peri's hopes are vain-
Again the Fates forbade, again
Th' immortal barrier clos'd-"Not yet,"
The angel said, as with regret,

He shut from her that glimpse of glory-
"True was the maiden and her story,

Written in light o'er Alla's head,
By seraph eyes shall long be read.
But, Peri, see-the crystal bar

Of Eden moves not-holier far
Than ev'n this sigh the boon must be
That opes the gates of Heav'n for thee."

Now, upon Syria's land of roses
Softly the light of Eve reposes,
And, like a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted Lebanon;
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,
And whitens with e'ernal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flowers,
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

But naught can charm the luckless Peri:
Her soul is sad-her wings are weary-
Joyless she sees the Sun look down
On that great Temple, once his own,
Whose lonely columns stand sublime,
Flinging their shadows from on high,
Like dials, which the wizard, Time.
Had rais'd to count his ages by!

Yet haply there may lie conceal'd

Beneath those Chambers of the Sun, Some amulet of gems, anneal'd

In upper fires, some tablet seal'd

With the great name of Solomon,
Which, spell'd by her illumin'd eyes,
May teach her where, beneath the moon,
In earth or ocean, lies the boon,
The charm, that can restore so soon
An erring Spirit to the skies.

Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither;-
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of Even
In the rich West begun to wither;-
When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play
Among the rosy wild flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel flies,

That flutter'd round the jasmine stems,
Like winged flowers or flying gems:-
And, near the boy, who tir'd with play
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount

From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount

Impatient fling him down to drink.
Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd
To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath daybeam burn'd
Upon a brow more fierce than that-
Suddenly fierce-a mixture dire,
Like thunder clouds, of gloom and fire;
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;
The ruin'd ones-the shrine profan'd-
Oaths broken-and the threshold stain'd
With blood of guests!-there written all,
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing angel's pen,
Ere Mercy weeps them out again.

Yet tranquil now that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Soften'd his spirit) look'd and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play :-
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's its lurid glance

Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches, that have burnt all night
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.

But, hark! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,

From Syria's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod,

Kneels, with his forehead to the south,

Lisping th' eternal name of God

From Purity's own cherub mouth,

And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,

Like a stray babe of Paradise,

Just lighted on that flowery plain,

And seeking for its home again.

O, 'twas a sight-that Heav'n-that child

A scene, which might have well beguil'd

Ev'n haughty Eblis of a sigh

For glories lost and peace gone by!

And how felt he, the wretched Man
Reclining there-while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace.