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'Tis he of Gazna-fierce in wrath

He comes, and India's diadems Lie scattered in his ruinous path.

His blood-hounds he adorns with gems, Torn from the violated necks

Of many a young and loved Sultana
Maidens within their

pure

Zenana, Priests in the very fane he slaughters, And choaks up with the glittering wrecks

Of golden shrines the sacred waters !

Downward the Peri turns her gaze ;
And, through the war-field's bloody haze,
Beholds a youthful warrior stand

Alone, beside his native river,
The red blade broken in his hand,

And the last arrow in his quiver. 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 the invader's heart.

6

False flew the shaft, though pointed well;
The tyrant lived, the hero fell -
Yet marked the Peri where he lay ;

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

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

Be this,' she cried, as she winged 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 boivers of bliss! Oh! 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 even this drop the boon must be,
That

opes the gates of heaven for thee !

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,

Now among Afric's Lunar mountains,
Far to the south, the Peri lighted;
And sleeked her plumage at the fountains
Of that Egyptian tide --whose birth
Is hidden from the sons of earth,
Deep in those solitary woods:
Whereof the Genii of the floods
Dance round the cradle of their Nile,
And hail the new-born giant's smile!
Thence over Egypt's palmy groves,
Her grots and sepulchres of kings,
The exiled spirit sighing roves ;
And now hangs listening to the doves
In warm Rosetta's vale-now loves
To watch the moonlight on the wings
Of the white pelicans that break
The azure calm of Moris' lake.
'Twas a fair scene- a land more bright,
Never did mortal

eye

behold! Who could have thought that saw this night,

Those valleys and their fruits of gold

Basking in heaven's serenest light ;-
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending

Languidly their leaf-crowned heads,
Like youthful maids, when sleep descending,

Warns them to their silken beds;
Those virgin lilies all the night

Bathing their beauties in the lake,
That they may rise more fresh and bright,

When their beloved sun's awake,
Those ruined sbrines and towers that seem
The relics of a splendid dream ;

Amid whose fairy loneliness
Nought but the lap-wing's cry is heard,
Nought seen but when the shadows flitting,
Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam)
Some purple-winged Sultana sitting

Upon a column motionless,
And glittering like an idolbird -
Who could have thought, that there, even there,
Amid those scenes so still and fair,
The demon of the plague hath cast
From his hot wing a deadlier blast,
More mortal far than ever came
From the red desert's sands of flame!
So quick, that every living thing
Of buman shape touched by his wing,

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Like plants, where the Simoom hath past,
At once falls black and withering !

The sun went down on many a brow,

Which full of bloom and freshness then,
Is rankling in the pest-house now,

And ne'er will feel that sun again!
And oh! to see the unburied heaps
On which the lonely moonlight sleeps
The very vultures turn away,
And sicken at so foul a prey !
Only the fierce hyæna stalks
Througliout the city's desolate walks
At midnight, and his carnage plies---

Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets
The glaring of those large blne eyes

Amid the darkness of the streets !

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· Poor race of men !' said the pitying spirit,

• Dearly ye pay for your primal fall; Some flowerets 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!

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