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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 eternal sleet, While summer, in a vale of flowers,

Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

To one, who look'd from upper air O'er all the enchanted regions there, How beauteous must have been the glow, The life, the sparkling from below! Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks Of golden melons on their banks, More golden where the sun-light falls;--Gay lizards, glittering on the walls Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright As they were all alive with light;--And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks Of pigeons, settling on the rocks, With their rich restless wings, that gleam Variously in the crimson beam Of the warm west,---as if inlaid With brilliants from the mine, or made Of tearless rainbows, such as span The’ unclouded skies of Peristan! And then, the mingling sounds that come, Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum Of the wild bees of Palestine, Banquetting through the flowery vales;--And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, And woods, so full of nightingales!

But nought 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 thitherStill 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 tum'. To the fair child, who fearless sat, Though never yet hath day-beambon's Upon a brow more fierce than thatSullenly 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 maid---the shrine prosau'lOaths broken---and the threshold suito With blood of guests!---there write, 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 cha"
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance
Met that unclouded, joyous gate,
As torches, that have burnt all night
Through some impure and godles”
Encounter morning's glorious roo

But hark! the vesper-call to prayer, As slow the orb of day-light sets, Is rising sweetly on the air, t From Syria's thousand minare" The boy has started from the bed Of flowers, where he had laid his head, And down upon the fragrant sod th Kneels, with his forehead to the " Lisping th' eternal name of God From purity's own cherub-mooh, And looking, while his hands and eyes Are listed to the glowing skie Like a stray babe of Paradise. . Just lighted on o o And seeking for its home aga" ldOh 'twas a join io A scene, which might have well begu Ev’n haughty Eblis of a sigh For glories lost and peace g”””

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!
“There was a time,” he said in mild,
Heart-humbled tones---" thou blessed child:
When young and haply pure as thou,
I look'd and pray'd like thee---but now---”
He hung his head---each nobler aim
And hope and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood's hour. that instant came
Fresh o'er him, and he wept---he wept!

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!
In whose benign, redeeming flow

Is felt the first, the only sense

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.

“There's a drop,” said the Peri, “that down from
Falls through the withering airs of June [the moon
Upon Egypt's land, of so healing a power,
So balmy a virtue, that ev’n in the hour
That drop descends, contagion dies,
And health reanimates earth and skies!---
Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin,
The precious tears of repentance fall?
Though foul thy fiery plagues within,
* One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all!”
And now---behold him kneeling there
By the child's side, in humble prayer,
While the same sun-beam shines upon
The guilty and the guiltless one,
And hymns of joy proclaim through Heaven
The triumph of a soul forgiven :

"Twas when the golden orb had set,
While on their knees they linger'd yet,
There fell a light, more lovely far
Than ever came from sun or star,
Upon the tear that, warm and meek,
Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek:
To mortal eye this light might seem
A northern flash or meteor beam---
But well the' enraptured Peri knew,
'Twas a bright smile the angel threw
From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear
Her harbinger of glory near!

“Joy, joy for ever! my task is done---
The gates are pass'd, and Heaven is won 1
Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am---
To thee, sweet Eden' how dark and sad
Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam,
And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad:

“Farewel, ye odours of earth, that die,
Passing away like a lover's sigh;---
My feast is now of the tooba tree,
Whose scent is the breath of eternity

“Farewelye vanishing flowers, that shone,
In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief---
Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown,

To the lote-tree, springing by Alla's throne, Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf:

Joy, joy for ever!—my task is done—

The gates are pass'd, and Heav'n is won t”


There stood—but one short league away
From old Harmozia's sultry bay—
A rocky mountain, o'er the sea
Of Oman beetling awfully;
A last and solitary link
Of those stupendous chains that reach
From the broad Caspian's reedy brink
Down winding to the green sea-beach.
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 worshipp'd in the blaze
That from its lofty altar shone,—
Though fled the priests, the votaries gone,
Still did the mighty flame burn on
Through chance and change, through good and ill,
Like its own God's eternal will,
Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable!
Thither the vanquish'd Hafed led

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'Twas night when to those towers they came,
And gloomily the fitful flame,
That from the ruin’d altar broke,
Glar'd on his features, as he spoke:—
“”Tis o'er—what men could do, we’ve done—
If Iran will look tamely on,
And see her priests, her warriors driven
Before a sensual bigot's nod,
A wretch, who takes his lusts to heaven,
And makes a pander of his God!
If her proud sons, her high-born souls,
Men in whose veins—oh last disgrace!
The blood of Zal and Rustam rolls,
If they will court this upstart race,
And turn from Mithra's ancient ray,
To kneel at shrines of yesterday!
If they will crouch to Iran's foes,
Why, let them—till the land's despair
Cries out to heav'n, and bondage grows
Too vile for ev'n the vile to bear !
Till shame at last, long hidden, burns
Their inmost core, and conscience turns
Each coward tear the slave lets fall
Back on his heart in drops of gall !
But here, at least, are arms unchain'd,
And souls that thraldom never stain'd;—
This spot, at least, no foot of slave
Or satrap ever yet profan'd;
And, though but few—though fast the wave
Of life is ebbing from our veins,
Enough for vengeance still remains.
As panthers, after set of sun,
Rush from the roots of Lebanon
Across the dark sea-robber's way,
We'll bound upon our startled prey;-
And when some hearts that proudest swell
Have felt our falchion's last farewell;
When hope's expiring throb is o'er,
And ev'n despair can prompt no more,
This spot shall be the sacred grave
Of the last few who, vainly brave,
Die for the land they cannot save!”

His chiefs stood round—each shining blade Upon the broken altar laid–

And though so wild and desolate
Those courts, where once the mighty sale;
Nor longer on those mouldering towers
Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers,
With which of old the Magi fed
The wandering spirits of their dead;
Though neither priest nor rites were there,
Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate;
Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air,
Nor symbol of their worshipp'd planet;
Yet the same God that heard their sires
Heard them, while on that altar's fires
They swore the latest, holiest deed
Of the few hearts, still left to bleed,
Should be, in Iran's injured name,
To die upon that Mount of Flame—
The last of all her patriot line,
Before her last untrampled shrine!

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