Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 001.djvu/503

Hadst thou been born a Persian maid,
In neighbouring valleys had we dwelt,
Through the same fields in childhood play'd,
At the same kindling altar knelt,—
Then, then, while all those nameless ties,
In which the charm of country lies,
Had round our hearts been hourly spun,
Till Iran's cause and thine were one;—
While in thy lute's awakening sigh
I heard the voice of days gone by,
And saw in every smile of thine
Returning hours of glory shine!—
While the wrong'd Spirit of our Land
Liv'd, look'd, and spoke her wrongs through thee,—
God! who could then this sword withstand?
Its very flash were victory!
But now—estrang'd, divorc'd for ever,
Far as the grasp of Fate can sever;
Our only ties what love has wove,—
Faith, friends, and country, sunder'd wide;—
And then, then only, true to love,
When false to all that's dear beside!
Thy father, Iran's deadliest foe—
Thyself, perhaps, ev'n now—but no—
Hate never look'd so lovely yet!
No—sacred to thy soul will be
The land of him who could forget
All but that bleeding land for thee!
When other eyes shall see, unmoved,
Her widows mourn, her warriors fall,
Thou 'It think how well one Gheber lov'd,
And for his sake thou'lt weep for all!
But look——'
With sudden start he turn'd
And pointed to the distant wave,
While lights, like charnel meteors, burn'd
Bluely, as o'er some seaman's grave;
And fiery darts, at intervals,
Flew up all sparkling from the main,
As if each star, that nightly falls,
Were shooting back to heaven again—
'My signal lights!—I must away—
Both, both are ruin'd, if I stay!
Farewell—sweet life! thou cling'st in vain—
Now—vengeance!—I am thine again.'
Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp'd,
Nor look'd—but from the lattice dropp'd
Down 'mid the pointed crags beneath,
As if he fled from love to death.
While pale and mute young Hinda stood,
Nor mov'd, till in the silent flood
A momentary plunge below
Startled her from her trance of wo."

Such were the tales that won belief,
And such the colouring fancy gave
To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief,—
One who, no more than mortal brave,
Fought for the land his soul ador'd,
For happy homes and altars free,
His only talisman, the sword,—
His only spell-word, Liberty!
One of that ancient hero line,
Along whose glorious current shine
Names, that have sanctified their blood;
As Lebanon's small mountain flood
Is render'd holy by the ranks
Of sainted cedars on its banks!
'Twas not for him to crouch the knee
Tamely to Moslem tyranny;—
'Twas not for him, whose soul was cast
In the bright mould of ages past,
Whose melancholy spirit, fed
With all the glories of the dead,
Though fram'd for Iran's happiest years,
Was born among her chains and tears!
'Twas not for him to swell the crowd
Of slavish heads, that shrinking bowed
Before the Moslem as he pass'd,
Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast—
No—far he fled—indignant fled
The pageant of his country's shame;
While every tear her children shed
Fell on his soul like drops of flame;
And as a lover hails the dawn
Of a first smile, so welcom'd he
The sparkle of the first sword drawn
For Vengeance and for Liberty!"

"Around its base the bare rocks stood,
Like naked giants, in the flood,
As if to guard the Gulf across;—
While on its peak that brav'd the sky,
A ruin'd temple tower'd, so high,
That oft the sleeping albatross
Struck the wild ruins with her wing,
And from her cloud-rock'd slumbering
Started—to find man's dwelling there
In her own silent fields of air!
Beneath, terrific caverns gave
Dark welcome to each stormy wave
That dash'd, like midnight revellers, in;—
And such the strange mysterious din
At times throughout those caverns roll'd,—
And such the fearful wonders told
Of restless sprites imprison'd there,
That bold were Moslem, who would dare,
At twilight hour, to steer his skiff
Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff.
On the land side, those towers sublime,
That seem'd above the grasp of Time,
Were sever'd from the haunts of men
By a wide, deep, and wizard glen,
So fathomless, so full of gloom,
No eye could pierce the void between;
It seem'd a place where Gholes might come
With their foul banquets from the tomb,
And in its caverns feed unseen.
Like distant thunder from below,
The sound of many torrents came;
Too deep for eye or ear to know
If 'twere the sea's imprison'd flow,
Or floods of ever-restless flame.
For each ravine, each rocky spire,
Of that vast mountain stood on fire;
And though for ever past the days,
When God was worshipped in the blaze