'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 ; Alone, beside his native river, The red blade broken in his hand, 'Live,' said the conqueror, Live to share The trophies and the crowns I bear!' Silent he pointed to the flood All crimson with his country's blood, False flew the shaft, though pointed well; And when the rush of war was past, 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, On the field of warfare, blood like this, It would not stain the purest rill, That sparkles among the bowers of bliss! 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, Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, Basking in heaven's serenest light ;- Like youthful maids, when sleep descending, Bathing their beauties in the lake, That they may rise more fresh and bright, Those ruined shrines and towers that seem Amid whose fairy loneliness Nought but the lap-wing's cry is heard, Upon a column motionless, Α ́ And glittering like an idol bird! 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! Of human shape touched by his wing, Like plants, where the Simoom hath past, The sun went down on many a brow, The Is rankling in the pest-house now, '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! |