Safie :: :: University of Virginia Library

Safie

An eastern tale. By J. H. Reynolds

Reynolds, John Hamilton (1794-1852)

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INTRODUCTORY STANZAS TO Safie, AN EASTERN TALE.

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INTRODUCTORY STANZAS TO Safie, AN EASTERN TALE.

I

Land of the East! long loved, and lately sung,
By one whose touch could animate the lyre;
Above whose tones the Muses list'ning hung,
Rapt by their sweetness,—startled at their fire:
Thy woes could move, thy graces could inspire
The heart to mourn, the genius to express:
Alas! I fear my humble verse will tire;
But though I fail, I do not feel the less,
But love thy sunny clime, and mourn o'er thy distress.

II

Yes! thy distress; for sad distress it is
To see the freeman tamed into the slave,—
To have known thyself the throne of manly bliss,
Pride of the world, and birth-place of the brave;
And now a blooming, but disgraceful grave,
Where Freedom lies, regretted but by few:
Is then that spirit gone thy fathers gave?
Will none now struggle for what's still in view?
Is there no breast that beats to former feelings true?

III

'Tis not too late;—too late it cannot be
To strive again for independent power;
Glory awaits the valiant and the free,
Whose swords are waving, and whose spirits tower:
The cause, if gain'd, will consecrate the hour,—
If lost, its fame will pass to after-time;
And maids and lovers, in the hall and bower,
Minstrels, whose task it is to weave the rhyme,
Will sing of those who toil'd to save a sinking clime.

IV

Lovely, though lost! and elegant, though faded!
Well o'er thy sorrows may the tears fast flow;
Hearts not subdued, and minds not yet degraded,
Must feel the change, and long lament thy woe:
Worthy, alas! a better fate to know,
The vines still flourish on the mountains green,
The orange blossoms, and the flowers still blow;
And where destroying man hath never been,
Decay's slow crumbling touch doth yet remain unseen.

V

And thou canst boast a line of beauty too,
In the fine features of thy lovely fair;
A poet's fancy might in vain pursue
The task of painting loveliness so rare:—
Eyes dark, yet soft,—and teeth that might compare
With polish'd rows of whitest ivory;—
A glossy flow of Hyacinthine

THE metaphor taken from the Hyacinth is very common with the Arabians, and was so with the Greeks: a poem can hardly lay claim to the title of “Oriental” without it. Sir William Jones has made use of it in an Eclogue composed of Eastern images:—

“The fragrant Hyacinths of Azza's hair,
“That wanton with the laughing summer air.”

hair,—
A cheek whose glowing colour well might vie
With the first roseate blush that tints the morning sky.

VI

Thine is the clime where stranger never stay'd
Free from the conquest of the plaintive eye;
The fine-turn'd form, with elegance array'd;
The easy grace; the artful half-breath'd sigh;
The eye that seems to gaze upon the sky,—
Ah! sweetly raised to shew its orb of white;
The taper hand, that cunningly would try
To toss the raven ringlets from the sight;—
The voice so sweet and soft; the step so free and light.

VII

Then how they love! unlike those cold of clime
Who never feel the flames they falsely speak;
But whine and flatter the accustom'd time,
And then their promises unkindly break;
In tempers chilly, and in spirits weak:—
With thee love speaks by glance of lady's eye,—
The silent furtive kiss upon the cheek,—
The feigned forgetfulness,—the whisper sly,—
The pressure of the hand,—the sympathetic sigh!

VIII

Thine is the land for love! the land for soul!
For hearts of ardour, and for beauty bright;
Love lives and roves with thee without controul,
Smiles in the air and in the laughing light:
Oh! Woman's frown is like a moonless night,
When every cheering ray from earth is driven;—
Her glance is promise to the gazer's sight,
Her lively smile bestow'd is rapture given,—
And oh! her feeling heart is ever Eastern heaven

A Female heart does not strictly form the “divine place of rest” promised by Mahomet; but mortals in general, and Arabians in particular, entertain very sublime notions of it. The following are held out to Mussulmen as the rewards of heaven:—

“The righteous, after having passed the bridge, will be refreshed by drinking at the pond of their prophet, and then admitted into Paradise, situated in the seventh heaven, and next to the throne of God; where they will be fed on the most delicious fruits, be clothed in the most splendid silken garments, refreshed with rivers of water, wine, milk, and honey, and entertained with the most delightful music, and the ravishing black-eyed girls of Paradise, the enjoyment of whose company will be a principal felicity of the faithful.

IX

Ye! who are chosen in the light blue world
To welcome spirits to eternal day,
Oh! be one sign, one heavenly sign unfurl'd,
To cheer my task, and light me on my way:
My verse records a deed of warlike fray;
Love prompts my song, and can ye then deny
A glance to animate the tender lay;—
Theme of the tongue, and pleasure of the eye,
The dearest, first best bliss the soul partakes on high.

X

Smile then, ye Houries! on my bold attempt,
With Eastern charms to decorate my song;—
Oh! be my verse from dullness, aye exempt,
In thought expressive, and in language strong:
May all that doth to Music's voice belong,
Breathe through my lines melodious to the ear;
May Fancy fire those lines that speak of wrong,
And give them power to draw the generous tear,
To raise within the heart a gentle, pleasing fear.

Safie.

AN EASTERN TALE.

Oh! Peace had long rested in Assad's haram,
Till the clang of arms, the war's alarum,
Had scared the meek-eyed damsel from
Her fair abode, her smiling home.
Happiest Assad! then wast thou sharing
The smiles of a maiden fair and free,
As e'er whisper'd lover's melody;—
Ever fulfilling, and ever declaring.
She kiss'd thee hence when the steed was mounted,
For the rural pleasures of hunt and chase;

She listen'd to hear the feats recounted,
With words of praise and smiling face:
She swept the lute with an airy lightness
That hardly seem'd to touch the chords;
She sang such sweet, such witching words,—
And her eyes flash'd such expressive brightness;—
That a Houri could never in hours of pleasure,
Breathe a softer tone or a lovelier measure;—
Nor could brighter glances ever be given,
To welcome the souls of the dead to Heaven!—
She was as cheering and as bright
As the first sun-beam to the sight,
Which glances on the mountain high,
But scorning earth, reseeks the sky.
I may not—I cannot picture her form!—
'Twas all that was graceful,—'twas all that was fair;
'Twas like gleam of sunshine amid a storm,—
'Twas a ray of hope amid despair.

I cannot—I dare not describe her face!
That might soothe with a smile the heart when breaking;—
Expression and love the eye might trace,
Which in moments of silence were ever speaking.
Her caftan

The Caftan is a robe exactly fitted to the shape, and reaches to the feet: it has long, strait, falling sleeves. A girdle is worn over it, of about three inches broad, which all that can afford it have entirely of diamonds and precious stones: those who will not be at this expence, have it of exquisite embroidery on satin; but it must be fastened before with a clasp of diamonds.

was of gold and green,
The richest in the Bizestien

The Bizestien is a market-place; chiefly, I believe, for jewellers and embroiderers.

,
Which, clasp'd by diamond on her neck,
Fell o'er the form it loved to deck;—
Her talpack

The talpack is a cap, which in winter is made of velvet, embroidered with pearls or diamonds; and in summer of a light shining silver stuff. It is fixed on one side of the head, hanging a little way down with a gold tassel, and bound on either with a circle of diamonds, or a rich embroidered handkerchief.

rested on a brow
Far whiter than the flakes of snow,
By winter winds unruly driven
From earth, uninjured, back to heav'n.
Ah! who could gaze without a sigh;—
The monk that pines and prays in cell
Would view her with enraptured eye,
And cry Guzelle! Guzelle!

Guzelle! Guzelle!—Beautiful! Beautiful!

The noblest monarch on the globe
Might love to kiss her sacred robe

This observance was accounted an act of the most profound respect throughout the East.

.
Yes! she was dear as living light,
As angel pure,—as morning bright;—
Her heart could love—Oh! Assad tell,
Awhile how faithfully! how well!—
'Tis even sweet, though years are past
Since Safie look'd and sigh'd her last;—
'Tis even sweet to think upon
The semblance of those beauties gone,—
To meditate most silently
Upon that form—that heart—that eye;—
And yet, amid the soft reflection,
At times a sadden'd recollection
Of Safie's sorrow darts its pain
Across the meditating brain,—
And makes it dread to think again.

Yet, loving still, the memory scorns
To shun the object that adorns;
But ponders still—and still admires,—
And loves the shade with living fires:
Till one sad thought, more dread than hate,
Glares on the mind—the maiden's fate!
Then memory staggers in its pain,
And cannot—cannot rise again.
Thus the light-loving insect dares
To court the flame that only glares
To lure its heedless fluttering,
Destroy its down, and scorch its wing:—
Thus does it love the fire that burns,
Though injured oft, it yet returns,—
And, seeking still the bright'ning hue,
It struggles back and flutters through,
The dazzling—desolating fire,
Till all its energies expire:—

Then—then the scorching heat appals,
The flame o'ercomes—the insect falls!
'Tis still remember'd;—that dark hour,
When broken was the Haram bower,
By Turkish horde, that came and fled
Like vision of the restless dead!
Savage, yet short, the sudden strife
Of those who fought for love and life;
And desperate was the mortal fray
Of those who came to rob and slay.
The Turkish chieftain gain'd the maid,
'Twas all he sought,—'twas all he had;
Alone he fled,—the rest betray'd,
Were left to flee, or fight, or fall:—
They fought,—they fell,—aye, one and all.
Oh! Assad struggled long to save
His Safie from the ruffian brave,—
And staked his life, and dared the grave.

The Turkish robber threw his arm
Around the fair, whose eye might charm
A wolf, to guard her form from harm.
Across the steed his prey was thrown,—
The spurs were lanced—the lady gone!
Yes! now they speed from tumult's scene,
Where struggled madly serf with serf;
And now the trees and bushes screen,—
Yet still is seen the scatter'd turf,
Spurn'd by the dashing hoof on high;
And oft, through brake, the searching eye
May catch a glimpse of those that fly:—
An arm quick waving o'er the head,—
A palampore

A Palampore is a very elegant shawl, fancifully flowered; which is usually worn by persons of consequence.

, a turban red,—
The fleet black courser's glossy tail,
Tossing and lashing on the gale:—

At times a shout of rage or fear
Steals faintly on the list'ning ear,
Utter'd to urge the courser on:—
And now beyond all bushes pacing,
A moving form the eye is tracing;—
Yes!—yet a moment it is seen,
Gliding o'er vale—up mountain green;
Seen—but a moment seen:—now gone!
When storms are up, the midnight sky,
Rent by the thunderbolt on high,
Regains one moment of repose
Before its force more raging grows;—
And awful is the silence then,
Till violence returns again.
So for a space the battle stood,
And stillness mark'd the scene of blood;—

But when their chief was seen no more
The fight grew fiercer than before,—
And ere the evening twilight shed
Its dewy veil on mountain-head,
The plain was strew'd with limbs, and dyed with gore.
Yes! sad was the scene where lay scatter'd the wounded;
By beasts of the desart the spot was surrounded:
The forms of the dead and the dying remain'd,
To rot on the places their life-streams had stain'd;—
Or to feed the wild wolves that came howling to tear,
Allured by the blood-scent that rode on the air.
With ruinous gashes

“And his gash'd stabs look'd like a wound in nature,
“For ruin's wasteful entrance.”

Macbeth.

the vassals lay moaning,
The wind was their comfort; the sand was their covering;—
The weary were weeping, the wounded were groaning,
And over their heads were the dark vultures hovering.
They heard the birds screaming a desolate sound,
And the flap of their wings as they lit on the ground:

They felt the fierce beasts gnash their horrible teeth,
But they could not—they wish'd not, to flee from their death;
For their arms were too mangled, their spirits too weak,
To resist the wolf's fang, or the vulture's strong beak

Wolves and Vultures are very numerous in the East, and the bloody frays of the Arabs draw them together frequently.

.
Wounded and fainting Assad fell
Upon the carnage-cover'd ground;
But outward he was hale and well,
Compared with inward wound.
A moment gazed he on the fair,
With nerveless hand and frenzied stare;—
He saw her borne on courser, fleet
As ever paw'd with restless feet:—
He tried to raise his voice,—'twas vain;
Convulsed with rage, fatigue, and pain,
He fell like tenant of the grave,
Too faint to fight, too weak to save.

And what, when waking, were Assad's throes,
When returning mem'ry drew each scene?
What then were his feelings—Ah! what were his woes
To remember what late had been!—
To trace the shock, the blood of war,
The tophaike

Tophaike,—a Musquet.

and the scimitar,—
The turban cleft,—the trunkless head,—
The groans of those who fought and bled,—
The faint,—the dying,—and the dead!—
The savage fury of the foe,—
The flashing steel that mark'd the blow,
That blow which fell'd him from his maid,
That hateful blow from Turkish blade!—
The evil eye that on him glanced,—
The fiery steeds that foam'd and pranced,—
The shouts, the thunder of the fight,—
The flashes of each carabine,

That cast a momentary light,
In which pale Death was seen to shine.
The last, the worst, the maddening sight,
Of Guleph's prey, and Safie's flight?
And did he rave when life return'd?
And was all hope, all pity spurn'd?
And did he call on maiden lost?
And did he say a spectre crost
In Turkish turban stain'd with blood;
Or boast of wading gory flood?
Did voice speak madness loud and dire?
Did eye flash rage, revengeful fire?
Was bosom beat? Was garment rent?
Were curses mutter'd on the brand
That cleaved him from a Turkish hand?
Were savage imprecations sent

To those who let the foe escape?
Did he not court in every shape,
From hands of a vassal, from stab of a slave,
The comfort of death—the repose of the grave!
No!—There was in his face, his air,
The settled horror of despair!—
The sunken eye,—the bloodless cheek,—
The tongue that scorns to mourn,—to speak,—
The heedless ear,—the memory gone
Of every object past, save one!
Those brooding thoughts that ne'er depart,
The inward bleeding of the heart,—
The sudden tear,—the sadden'd face,—
The mind's dejection and disgrace,—
The seeming peace, yet hidden strife,—
The weary listlessness of life:—

Oh! there was in his face, his air,
The settled horror of despair!
Oh! what is love?—A smiling guest
That lights the look, and joys the breast,—
That wantons in the train of beauty,
And lives in many a bright black eye;—
Whose promises of faith and duty
Are utter'd in a sigh:—
With ardour breathed, remember'd long,—
The theme of every tale and song,—
The glowing flame that burns to strengthen,—
The chain that time and absence lengthen;—
A mystic feeling of the breast,
That makes anxiety seem rest!
Oh! Love is never prized unless
It brings a host of grief and fears;
A calm return of love appears
A weary weight of nothingness,—

A still, insipid pledge of hearts,
Where quick success disgust imparts,—
Where nought is left to hope or dread,—
Where all is gain'd that e'er was sought;—
A fireless passion bred from nought,
That slumbers in the bosom dead.
When sailing on the wide, wide ocean,
The sailor values not repose;
He joys to see the tide in motion,—
To feel it roughen as it flows,—
To feel the dark blue waters ride
In billows 'gainst the vessel's side;
For sad is idle calm, when dull
The breezes breathe, and not a wave
The timbers of the vessel lave;—
When silence tends the mind to lull,—
When like a log the ship remains,
And ne'er her trackless travel gains.

Ah! What is love? Can any tell?
Can even the heart that feels it well?
For it is such an inward feeling,
That gathers wildness from concealing,—
That gives a joy amid its grief,
And brings in anguish a relief.
Yes! Love is cherish'd, yet upbraided;
Ah! Love is honour'd, yet degraded;—
And those who feel its strength increase,
Ask for, yet ne'er desire, release,—
But live in self-created pains,
And rave aloud, yet hug their chains.
The mist was dispersing o'er rock and mount;
The mist was flitting from wave and fount;
The dew was dropping from grass and flower,
The trembling beauty of an hour:

You would think it was morn by the freshen'd air,
That kiss'd the face, so cool, so fair,—
And by many a tint that loves to lie
On the furthest edge of an Eastern sky:—
For as maiden coy, when her lover near
Whispers his suit in her list'ning ear,
Feels at the praise a modest blush
Spread o'er her cheek its glowing flush,
Till a smiling light and pleasure dance
Bright on her rosy countenance;—
So the faint red tints of rising morn
At first the bashful East adorn,
Till increasing in glow, at last the day
Burst forth on many a laughing ray;—
And so the rose, the garden's glory,
Resplendent in Arabian story,
That sweetly trembles to the tale,
When warbled by the Nightingale

Most of the Turkish songs open with an allusion to the attachment of the Rose and Nightingale.—The following is a specimen of one:—

“The Nightingale now wanders in the vines,
“Her passion is to seek Roses.”

That seeks to share the lover's bliss,
With ruby lip, and perfumed kiss,
Displays at first such simple streaks,
As line the sky when morning breaks,
Which heightening still, and still increasing,
As from the circling leaves releasing,
Divinely sweet,—supremely gay,—
It blows,—it blushes into day.
Look to the West, and you'd think 'twas night,
By the pensive cast of the sober light,—
By many a lingering moonbeam shining,
Though faintly in the light declining,—
And by scatter'd stars o'er the pale blue sky,
That tremble in bright uncertainty.
'Twas just that dim, that dubious hour,
When darkness yields her gloomy power,—

When the day first rising in the East
Sees the night expiring in the West,—
And every object shuns the sight,
So faintly seen in the faint twilight.
Dark Assad from his couch arose,
Oppress'd with weight of weary woes:—
The night was pass'd by the lonely lover
In lengthen'd sighs and falling tears;—
But not for present hopes or fears;—
His fears were fled,—his hopes were over:—
One sad remembrance haunted his mind,
And though joys might come or cares depart,
Yet still this sorrow remain'd behind,
A spectre to the heart!
He look'd from his lattice on rising day,—
He sigh'd aloud and wept alone;—
And though loveliest scenes around him lay,
He look'd upon all,—and thought on none!

There verdant hill and cultured vale,
As sweet as ever western gale,
Sigh'd on in airy playfulness,
Appear'd in Nature's fairest dress:
There many a lake the green shore laves
With ripple soft of rising waves;—
And many a tuneful reed is there,
That rustles to the passing air;—
And flowers are budding, ever new,
Of fairest form and brightest hue,—
To speck the grass and glad the eye,—
To catch the dew,—the zephyr sigh,—
And o'er the green, refreshing field,
A rich variety to yield.
And could the sun his progress stay,
Oh! He would linger on his way,
To gaze on Eastern hill and vale,
Till sight decline and glory fail;—

But since he cannot rest awhile,
A warmer ray,—a kinder smile
Is beaming from his golden brow,
To light and cheer such scenes below.
The camels were burthen'd silently,
With many a rich and varied garb;
And the strongest camel, the fleetest barb,
Were there selected carefully:—
For they were to travel o'er sand and plain,
That never shone with dew or rain;—
And they were to journey o'er many a hill,
That never felt a trickling rill;—
O'er barren shores and wasted fields,
That not a blade of herbage yields:—
But rough and hot, to weary feet,
Serve but to harden in the heat.

A few went with him, and few were meet,
Of harden'd valour and chosen might;—
The first to attack,—the last to retreat,
In the frenzied hour of fight.
And they were arm'd for fray or flight,
For combat close, or savage chase:
Their arms were many, strong, and light,
To aid the war or aid the race;
Beside the thigh a sabre hung,—
Across the back a musket slung,
And close observer might behold
An Ataghan

An Ataghan is a long dagger worn in the belt.

in garments' fold:
The chosen steeds, in spirit high,
Threw their black foreheads to the sky,
And seem'd, all restless of delay,
To fret and foam at weary stay:—
And Assad stays no more!—They feel
The shaking rein,—the spur of steel;—

With spurning foot, and lashing tail,
They speed away from Eastern vale,—
And, freely to their rider's will,
Rush up the steep and rugged hill.
On mountain ridge, ere he withdrew,
Sad Assad took a parting view;—
And there seem'd in that latest glance
Remembrance,—doubt,—and melancholy,—
A sadden'd cast,—a feeling holy;—
It was a wistful countenance!
He rested long on his own dark bower,
That had given him many a joyous hour,—
That had held him from his day of birth
Till the moment he left his native earth;
Whose floors had often felt the press
Of mirthful feet in playfulness;—

Whose mirrors had often back reflected
The bright black eyes of a loving maid,
Long since by Turkish hand betray'd.
Alas! those mirrors are now neglected;
And she who looks on the polish'd plates,
Dust unmolested contemplates,—
And well may read, as she gazes there,
The fate of all that's bright and fair.
He paused on many a circling lake,
That had help'd in the course his thirst to slake;—
He paused on shrub, and rock, and valley,
Where playful sunbeams love to dally:
And then his face, his eye express'd
A wish to linger,—yet to fly;—
His home was here,—his love was gone,—
With her was every feeling flown?
Ah! No:—his mother claim'd a sigh!

He long'd to stay, but then again,
Suddenly through his frenzied brain,
The image of his maid would cross,—
Her trackless flight,—her cruel loss;—
Perchance o'er hot and sandy plain,—
Perhaps sailing on the dark blue main,—
Or wandering on some desart shore,
With prospect of protection o'er;
The thoughts would rush so quick, so strong,
Of his despair, of Safie's wrong,
That mind and heart were bent to flee
From land, from home, from misery!—
He turn'd his steps, and sought to smother
All rankling feelings of the past;—
He sought to fly with maddening haste;—
But could he then desert his mother!
Leave her without a last farewell,
The mother he had loved so well!

A kiss might soften timeless flight;
A parting look were ray of light,
In such a day of gloomy grief,
When sighs were hope, and tears relief.
“It must not be! Away! Away!
“I may not gaze,—I cannot stay;—
“The vales that I have loved so dear,
“When life was fed by youthful dreaming,—
“When love was life,—when joy was seeming,
“When words could raise, and looks could cheer,
“Are now beheld as prospects drear,—
“And many a cause for grief and fear
“Have made me hate to sojourn here.
“I've tried my Safie's loss to bear,
“I cannot overcome despair!

“Oh! what were dearest are now most hated,—
“The form so fair,—the light of the eye,—
“The look that promised,—the voice that elated,—
The tear of affection,—the causeless sigh;
“Shed to betray and breathed but to die;
“For fate on my happiest joys hath sated,
“And hath left me but to fly.”
He left the ridge,—he look'd no more
On native scene of earliest joy;
The prospect on his sight before
Gave promises of travel sore,
Which hope could not destroy:
But there were in this chosen few,
Men that could bear a wasted view;
They loved their lord too well to shun
The bleak, black night, and parching sun;

They long had lived without controul,
Though slaved in body, free in soul,—
And each would in his cause be brave,
And fight like warrior, not like slave.
The bonds that custom long had bound,
By usage bland, were part unwound,—
And care and kindness eased the pains
Once fretted by oppression's chains.
He pass'd at times o'er sallow plain,
Untrodden,—save when men of gain
The long, long travel undergo,
For mercenary recompence;—
And harden'd bear the night of woe,
And in the day the heat intense.
And there no bush, nor forests lie,
To darken 'gainst the distant sky,—
And not the faintest form is given
To break the space 'twixt earth and heaven.

And oft he saw the tigers prowl,
And oft he heard the mournful howl,—
When, roused by camels' bells at night,
They feared to face the torches' light

Mr. Marsden, in his History of Sumatra, relates, that tigers prove most fatal and destructive enemies to the inhatants, particularly in their journies. As these horrible enemies are alarmed at the appearance of fire, it is usual to carry lighted torches as a safeguard.

.
Short was his sleep and dark his dream;
He scarcely rested by a stream

It is a practice in the East, particularly when parties journey together, to halt if possible in the vicinity of a stream:—

“Now when they have reached the brink of yon blue gushing rivulet, they fix the poles of their tent, like the Arab in a settled mansion.”

Zohair.

,—
Although the banks, with flowers besprent,
Seem'd to invite the spreading tent.
Through many a vale at times he pass'd,
Preserved by rocks from stormy blast,—
Where many a tender floweret fair,
Waved its light blossom in the air;—
And much the Eastern air would love
The tulip's

The tulip is a flower of Eastern growth, and there held in great estimation:—Thus in an ode of Mesihi—

“The edge of the bower is filled with the light of Ahmed; among the plants, the fortunate Tulips represent his companions.”

varied bud to move;—
Where, browzing over lawn and dell,
Is seen the graceful slim Gazelle,
With eye of fire, and arrowy feet,
That speed his fickle course so fleet;

Where, after eve, the fair moon lights
The hanging trees and rocky heights,—
And loves to find in trembling lake
Her playful silvery beauties shake;
Or, if the waves have ceased to dance,
To view the wide and silent trance,—
A trance that seems like Nature's death,
And see as sweet a light beneath.
Oh! there the fancy well might trace,
When gazing on the watery space,
As bright a moon, and stars as true
As those that deck the sky of blue,—
The same faint, flitting clouds that move
So free, so gracefully above;—
And it might then believe,—beneath,
So long as slept the zephyr breath,
There beam'd a sky as blue, as bright,
As that which gives the living light;—

And while the glassy lake was even,
There glow'd below as rich a heaven.—
And yet how soon the fancy loses
The fickle fairy dream it chooses;
For soon as breathes a single sigh,
The waves disperse the faithless sky,—
The moon is starr'd

This expression is in allusion to the appearance of the moon on ruffled water.

,—the stars are gone,—
The flitting clouds are quickly flown;
That moon so still!—Those stars so fair!
And all is bright commotion there.
Thus does the brain awhile conceive,
Its brilliant fancies, and believe;—
And oh! those glowing hopes remain
A dazzling, yet deceitful train;—
And many a liken'd image find,
Upon the mirror of the mind:
So when the breeze of life is felt
To ruffle, how those fancies melt;

And real woe,—ideal rest,
Flutter uncertain in the breast.
He pass'd beneath a Haram bower,
At evening's cool and peaceful hour,
When, gently breathed, the freshening breeze
Came perfumed through the orange trees,—
And to its breath such sweets were given,
It wafted like the sighs of heaven;—
The leaves combined to mar its way,
And gently craved its dallying stay,—
Heedless it just the blossoms shed,
Kiss'd the green foliage, and fled.
The lamps in many a Mosque were set,
And guests in the Kiosk

“In the midst of the garden is the Kiosk; that is, a large room, commonly beautified with a fine fountain in the midst of it. It is raised nine or ten steps, and inclosed with gilded lattices; round which vines, jessamines, and honey-suckles, make a sort of green wall. Large trees are planted round this place, which is the scene of their greatest pleasures, and where the ladies spend most of their hours employed by their music or embroidery.” Lady M. W. Montague.

were met,
To flaunt it by the taper's ray,
And revel at departed day.—
He paused awhile beneath the wall,
To hear the music

The great men of the East are particularly fond of Music. Though forbidden by the Mahometan religion, it commonly makes a part of every entertainment.

of the hall,

Where ladies sang, and look'd, and sigh'd,
In prime of youth,—in beauty's pride.—
Well guarded by the dark Schaban

The apartments of the women are in general guarded by black eunuchs with drawn sabres. Schaban is the name given to them in common.

,
That living relic of a man,—
Whose only task it is to move
A joyless slave to tyrant love.
He paused awhile:—each tongue was mute;
For lightly wander'd o'er the lute,
Some hand that loved to kiss, and fly
The instrument of melody:—
He knew the touch;—he knew the note
That seem'd upon the gale to float,
So softly that the passing wind
Caught not an echo left behind:—
It burst on Assad's throbbing heart,
Too strong to waver or depart!—
'Twas fancy, perhaps:—and yet the sound
A tone within his bosom found,

That something of resemblance bore
To music he had heard of yore:—
A Turkish haram!—Could it be!—
The scene of noise, and vice, and glee.
The lamps of eve,—the brilliant dress,—
The touch that spoke forgetfulness!—
Ah!—No, 'twas fancy led him on
To think of days and pleasures gone.—
“Let me away;—for go I must;—
“The tones of mirth I dare not trust!
“Those tones which speak of others joy
“Thrill through my bosom to destroy:
“I find, unbless'd with short relief,
“Despair in mirth, and peace in grief.”
He closer wrapp'd his palampore,
And sought to trace the plain before;—

But as he left—a lovely voice,
Too dearly known to Assad's mind,
Came laughing on the heedless wind;—
And one was heard to sing:—Rejoice!—
To sing the air so loved of old,—
To tell again what once was told;—
So fondly that the heart might deem
That faith adorn'd the witching theme.—
Though many a weary day had flown
Since Assad heard its melting tone,
It echoed, as it warbled near,
Distraction in the startled ear:—
It spoke at once of early hours,
When peace reposed in Eastern bowers,—
When not a single sound was heard,
Save laugh, and song, and summer bird,
That caroll'd lightly on the tree
A sweet and simple melody.

“I know her voice;—now, Vassals, now
“The moment of revenge is come!—
“No further need to rail,—or roam
“In search of him with darken'd brow;
“Within this wall regales our foe.—
“By tapers' light he quaffs the wine

Sir John Chardin speaks of a wine much admired in the East, and particularly in Persia, called Roubnar; which is made from the juice of the pomegranate, and sent abroad in large quantities. A Moslem would doubtless in private, (unless very strict in his religion) indulge himself with a taste of this forbidden beverage. In fact, some of the impious have been known to quaff the goblet to the health of Mahomet. However, the liquor in most general use, is Sherbet; which consists of various syrups, such as lemon or capillaire, mixed with water. It is both cooling and pleasant.

,—
“Yes!—gaily in retirement quaffs,
“And at forbidding tenet laughs!—
“But other light shall deftly shine,
“And other stream shall quickly flow;
“He feeds unfear'd, nor thinks of woe,
“But this my arm shall lay him low.—
“There breathe within this Haram's gate
“All that I love, and seek, and hate:—
“Let blood and conquest mark the path
“That's singled out by Assad's wrath!”

With horrid yell, and arms outspread,
And sabres waving o'er the head;—
The valiant vassals heard no more,
But glided to the scene of gore,
Like the Simurgh

Many marvellous things are related of this bird; that it was not only endowed with reason, but possessed also the knowledge of every language. The Simurgh is said to have lived on Mount Caucasus: and Sadi, an admired Eastern writer, gives it as an instance of the universality of Providence, that notwithstanding its immense bulk, it never wanted sustenance on this mountain. The bird relates of itself, that it had seen the great revolution of seven thousand years, twelve times, commence and close; and that in its duration, the world had been seven times void of inhabitants, and as often replenished.

, that Eastern bird,
Which few have seen, but all have fear'd!
The walls were strong,—the guard was true,
And dearly might the Persian rue
His rash attack on what had stood
The raging storms of fire and flood.—
Oh! scarcely had the madden'd fray,
Of him who sought his Turkish prey,
Been known to turban'd chief, than throng
A band of vassals fierce and strong,—
And numerous as the leaves that play,
In breezes light, on autumn day.

They soon disarm'd the threatening band,
That came so furious to their land.
Though Assad raved and raged aloud,
And cursed the overpowering crowd,—
And many a wound unheeded bore;—
Nor cared for pain and streaming gore;—
But thirsted for revenge on one!
Dark, dread revenge:—Revenge alone!
Disarm'd—despairing—wounded—pain'd;—
His brain on fire;—his body chain'd;—
With sullen sadness, Assad paced
To the dark cell:—his mind a waste!
And sadly in the cell of stone,
He pass'd the gloomy night, alone,
Save one poor sharer of his care,
That harass'd deeply,—slumber'd there.

He gazed upon his vassal sadly,—
And tears, the medicine to his grief,
Stole down his cheek,—a cool relief!
To one whose spirit burn'd so madly.
“To live is but to crawl along
“A weary world, amidst a throng
“Of heartless beings, form'd to prey
“On all who cross their watchful way.
“To live, when all we love of life
“Is overwhelm'd by woe and strife,
“Is but to drag a lengthen'd chain,
“Whose links are solitude and pain.
“When what the heart most seeks to love
“Leaves it in solitude to move,—
“When all of earthly joy is gone,
“And what the hopes were fix'd upon,—
“When light no more can gladness give,
“'Tis best to die!—'Tis base to live!”

By fitful ray of lamp's dim light
He pass'd the long and weary night,
In tracing to his faithless fair
The 'wilder'd sorrows of despair!
And ere the morning twilight came,
To mock and mark his woe and shame,
An Ataghan, misfortune's token,
Pierced deep the heart which love had broken;—
But first he call'd the slumbering slave,
And thus his latest orders gave.—
“Vassal!—The scroll which I shall leave,
“When all my loneliness is o'er,
“And when 'twill be my fate no more
“The form to love,—the heart to grieve,—
“I charge you see it safe convey'd
“Unto that dear, deluding maid,
“Beloved,—betraying,—and betray'd:

“She'll find within a sadden'd tale,
“And many a hopeless word to wail,—
“The fragments of a gloomy mind,
“Left by its sufferer's hand behind;—
“The reasons why he sigh'd so long,
“The upbraidings of his woeful wrong;—
“His sad resolves at last to part;—
“The throbbings of a broken heart!”
The slave hath said who saw him die,—
That not for worlds would he again
View the last look of such an eye:—
It glancing spoke of inward pain,—
Of faded hope—of baffled hate,—
Which blood would glad, and nought but death could sate.

And might he once but live again,
The same dread deeds so dared of late,
Again he'd venture for his mate;—
And sorrow—love—revenge would wait,
To lead him on, yet lead in vain.
The slave hath said,—while life was leaving
In dark red streams his mangled breast,
The causes of his death,—his grieving,
Upon his thoughts tumultuous prest.
He dash'd his arm upon the floor,
So wet, so stain'd with his own gore;
He writhed his body,—struck his wound,
And scatter'd wide the blood around;—
But towards the last his strength grew tame,
And languor mark'd a weaken'd frame;—
His thoughts,—his love were still the same;—
While dying, lovely Safie's name

In murmurs from his pale lips past;
One groan he utter'd:—'twas his last!
Yet still upon his pallid face,
Revenge the vassal's eye could trace,—
Which living feelings first imprest,—
Which Death had fix'd with his cold touch;—
And oh! that faded front exprest
Of unextinguished hate so much,
The slave could scarce believe that such
Was the last look of one at rest!
Oh, love! what art thou? Sadly sweet!
A grief the bosom pants to meet;—
A weary source of restlessness,
That makes all other woes seem less:—
Thy charms are such, that, syren like,
Upon the tranced heart they strike:—

Thy hapless victims all admire
The gilded ray of future ruin;—
For darksome woe waits present wooing,
As blacken'd embers follow fire.
'Tis thine to lead the ardent soul
To deeds that spurn a cool controul;—
Through scenes of varied woe and joy,
To break the spirit and destroy.
'Tis thine to pause, retreat, and range,—
To promise truth, and yet to change;—
To lead to poverty and care,—
To bondage,—madness,—and despair!
Despair is poison of the heart!
It rankles in a feeling part;
It blasts the prospects of the mind,
And leaves a dreary waste behind:—

'Tis form'd to flourish in decay,—
And chase the hope of life away!
Oh! it is like that dreadful tree

The Upas or Poison Tree, said to be situated in the island of Java.

Which on the barren desart lives,—
And e'en mid desolation thrives,
In horrible solemnity!
Whose boughs upon the infected air,
Spread their dark arms, diseased and bare;—
Whereon reclines, in sullen state,
The mystic form of mystic fate;
Whose branches frame the wither'd wreath,
That crowns the fleshless brow of death!—
And as the poison'd breezes wave,
Scatter around that deadly breath,
That whispers of the grave!

The Scroll.

“Safie! Safie! Assad now
“With hopeless heart, and fever'd brow,
“And trembling hand, essays to send,
“Ere life, and thought, and grief shall end,
“A mournful tale of sorrow, proved,
“By her who caused, and him who loved.
“I soon shall be a pallid corse,
“Then, Safie, thou wilt feel remorse,
“And own that never heart was tried
“With heavier ills than his who died:—
“Remember that my love was such,
“It could not praise nor prize too much;—
“Remember, too, thy pledge of yore,—
“But this is now esteem'd no more;—

“For faith was often sigh'd and spoken,
“And yet how negligently broken:—
“I never could of thought that force
“Could turn affection in its course,—
“And wean the heart from what had first
“Within its pulse been bred and nurst.
“I mourn'd thy loss when thou wast gone,
“And sigh'd and sought to be alone;—
“But then, amid my grief, I fed
“A hope that still thy heart remain'd
“The same as when thy beauties fled:—
“The faithless hope was close retain'd.
“I cursed my fate, and cursed the hour,
“That bless'd thy dark-brow'd paramour:—
“I cannot curse thee:—Love can ne'er
“Descend for once to execrate
“The form that was so fond, so fair,
“Howe'er the mind is desolate:

“Enough to know and feel that fate
“Can change the temper of a mate,—
“And make her look on newer feres
“With all the love of earlier years:—
“Enough to know that she can give
“Those looks that bid a lover live,—
“And change at once the faithless sigh
“To words that urge him but to die.
“The very bird that haunts the shock
“Of cataract from blacken'd rock,—
“Who builds in crags her lonely nest,
“Loves the dear object of her breast
“With chaster fire, and purer truth,
“Than warm the fickle heart of youth.
“The savage monarch of the waste,
“Whose days on parched sands are past,

“With surly fondness loves to share
“That life which blood alone can sate,
“With one, that's true enough to dare
“Fatigue and peril for its mate.

“'Tis sad to know,—I could not stand
“To see thee take a Turkish hand,
“And promise faith in soothing strain,
“Although to break, perchance, again:—
“And yet to break!—Oh! that would be
“A lasting pang of agony,
“That well might suit my rival's fate,
“And satisfy revenge and hate.
“I could not look on thee again,
“A look would be despair and pain,—
“Would bring once more to memory's gaze
“The shades of past, yet blissful days:—

“A look would hurry me to trace
“Each charm of form,—each mental grace,
“That faithlessness could well deface:—
“I could not bear one single glance
“Of thy remember'd countenance,—
“Which better had I never seen:—
“Oh! better had I never been!
“For thou hast madden'd me beneath,
“And lured me with betraying breath,
“To leave me in the grasp of death.
“I think that I could view, unmoved,
“Thy wasted form, though so beloved,
“More peacefully, than see its charms
“Reposing in my rival's arms:—
“Better to wake within the grave,
“With none to hear, or see, or save;—
“To wake upon a stormy night,
“And view a strange, unearthly light

“Upon the dark, damp cavern dancing,—
“And see the spirits blood-draughts laving:—
“To view the ravenous Gouls

The Gouls are monsters that are supposed to haunt forests, cemeteries, and other lonely places; and believed not only to tear in pieces the living, but to dig up and devour the dead.

advancing,
“With fury for the flesh-feast craving;—
“To feel them tear the throbbing breast,
“With burning fangs that know no rest,
“Regardless of convulsive moan,—
“To feel them feed ere life is gone!
“Better, exposed in light Caique,
“A slow approach of death to seek,—
“And feel the sad attacks on life
“From storms above and ocean's strife;—
“A weary course,—declining power,—
“The same sad scene each passing hour;—
“Across a trackless desart driven,
“By rolling waves and winds of heaven.

“I'd rather gaze on beauties gone,
“And ponder over them alone,
“Till fancy well might animate
“The face that look'd so pale of late;—
“Revive the ruby in the cheek,—
“The lips with rosy colour streak,—
“And throw upon the faded eye
“A lightness like reality.—
“And fancy then again might paint
“A seeming smile, however faint;—
“And think the heart once more as warm
“As 'twas before the Turkish storm:—
“And many a prayer would scape the breast,
“To see the silent placid rest.—
“But fancy should not fly;—for then
“Thy death would be recall'd again;—
“And grief would view with sighs and tears
“The lonely object of its fears;—

“Would see the loose and glossy hair
“Reposing on the neck so fair;—
“The pale, still hand, where jewels seem'd
“To mock its beauty while they gleam'd.
“I cannot pause—I must not trace
“The lines of death upon thy face:—
“Thy face!—'Twere mad impiety
“For death to claim,—to think of thee!

“You knew me well:—Ah! wherefore think
“That Assad would at peril shrink,
“In rescuing thee, from one who bore
“Thy fainting beauties from the shore:—
“The perils I have dared are o'er,
“In search of thee, deceitful slave!
“I've travell'd to revenge or save,—
“But rescue, I desire no more.—

“I cannot now receive again
“A heart, defaced with such a stain
“As rests on and disfigures thine;—
“Thou hast been false to me and mine!
“And should I once again regain,
“I should not covet to retain.
“'Twould be but madness to recall
“Thy fondness, that could once sustain
“That heartless and degrading fall,
“That thrills and throbs my brain.
“Alas! 'twould be but to replace,
“In all the faith of first esteem,
“A form of beauty and disgrace,—
“And love those eyes that falsely beam.

“Die! Safie, die!—Thou'rt all too sweet,
“To sigh, yet torture with deceit;—

“Thy soft black eyes are all too bright,
“With that betraying lovely light,
“That raises and sustains desire,—
“Yet but sustains it to deceive;—
“That fans with sighs the treacherous fire,
“And fans it but to leave.
“That dark-brow'd paramour, who now
“Each morn may kiss thy marble brow

It is a very common custom to kiss the ladies on the forehead, between the eyes, as a morning salutation.

,
“Will find a fresher fere in time
“Can lure thee on to newer crime;
“And thou wilt from his praises flee,
“And ruin him—as thou hast me!

“I knew the time, when not for all
“The steeds that feed in Turkish stall,
“Would I have seen the messenger
“Relate to thee a tale of fear,

“For darkly to thy list'ning ear
“Would speak such woeful tidings clear;—
“But now thy cheek is never wet,—
“Is never stain'd with pitying tear;
“And thou hast ceased to feel and fret,
“Since I am not beloved so dear:—
“And thou canst, doubtless, bear to hear
“The fate of one, whose death is near.

“I've boldly dared—but dared in vain;—
“Of fate and falsehood I complain:—
“Twice have I stain'd with blood the ground,
“At first when lost—and last when found:—
“I would that I had never lost
“That form—my blessing, and my boast;—
“And yet, to find thee as I have,
“Gives further cause to fear—to rave:—

“'Twere better to have ranged for ever,
“In weary search, and find thee never,
“Than thus to know that time can sever
“The former feelings of a breast,
“That seem'd the seat of love and rest!
“Strange, that a breast so form'd to move
“In all the elegance of love,
“Should harbour danger and deceit,
“And spurn the form it sought to greet.—
“Strange, that an eye so soft, so bright,
“With all the love of Eastern light,
“Should gaze awhile, then turn away,
“And after fresher objects stray.—
“Strange, that those lips, so sweetly glowing,
“Should set the tide of promise flowing,—
“Should kiss, and yet delight to seek
“The pressure of another's cheek.

“Oh! woman, thou wast form'd to rove
“In passion's chase, yet not to love:—
“Wast form'd to fire the human breast,
“And rob it of its earthly rest.
“'Tis well to learn, yet sad to know,
“The eye that lures will lead to woe,—
“The lips that woo with thrilling kiss,
“Will breathe to others promised bliss,—
“Will whisper faith, and yet deceive,
“And fawn and flatter—but to leave!
“The breast so fair, yet fickle, feigns
“A crowded host of pleasing pains;—
“But quickly what it sought disdains,
“And promises, but ne'er retains;—
“For every sigh and saying prove
“It will not rest,—and cannot love!

“Oh! crimes I have, and yet I fail
“To breathe to Alla aught of mine;—
“'Tis useless now to wail—to whine:—
“Will prayer or penitence avail
“From one who long hath shunn'd his shrine?
“I long for, but I cannot have
“The blessing which my feelings crave,—
“A father's last and lonely blessing,
“To save and soothe my heated breast,—
“So long deceived,—distress'd,—distressing;—
“To lull it into tranquil rest.
“But though I need the Iman's

The Iman or Imaum is the Chief Priest of the Mosque.

prayer,
“I dread his close and pious care;
“For should he all my failings prove,
“Then would appear my lasting love,—
“Love, such as holy words could never
“From my unaltered bosom sever!

“Oh! if it be a crime to cherish
“An everlasting, quenchless flame,—
“Which neither pain nor prayer can tame,—
“Which wastes not with the wasting frame,—
“In faithless mirth—in grief the same;—
“Then must my hopes of heaven perish.
“If this be crime—and if for this
“The soul must be denied its bliss;—
“Then must I dread what death will give,—
“Then might I almost long to live!
“Can pity calm my love for thee,—
“Or bring a truce to memory?
“Can holy words awhile assuage
“My scorn—regret—revenge—and rage;
“Or can an Iman cool that part,
“Which burns for ever in my breast?
“Oh! can he soothe me into rest,—
“Or crush the viper at my heart?

“I care not now what arms entwine
“That well-remember'd form of thine,
“Since now no longer solely mine.—
“I care not now what eye beholds
“The charms thy lifted veil unfolds

“I was informed,” says Dr. Cooke, “that the Eastern women would sooner expose to public view any part of their bodies, than their faces.”

,
“Which ne'er was cast aside before
“For stranger's eye to wander o'er;
“But hung like silver mist of even,
“That dims the starry front of heaven.

“Oh, Safie! send to her who pines
“In distant vale at my delay;—
“And she will weary all the shrines,
“If grief will let her pause to pray.
“Tell her—my dear, deserted mother!
“Her whom I basely left of late,—
“Tell her the tidings of my fate,
“Because I could not love another:—

“And she will weep, but wonder not,
“To hear the troubles of my lot:—
“She knows what 'tis to love most truly,—
“She knows love's storm is most unruly,—
“Hurrying the soul to dare such deed
“As fearful reason dreads to view;—
“To brave the waves so dark, so blue,—
“To fly from home—to fight—to bleed!
“She'll weep and wail,—but midst her woe,
“'Twill soothe awhile the heart to know
“Her son's affection none could sever,—
“That when he loved—he loved for ever!

“I had a brother—who would weep,
“If life were his, to know my change;
“But ah! it was his fate to range
“In galley o'er the mountain water:—
“He fell in hour of savage slaughter!

“And pirate hands his body threw
“To ocean billows dark and blue:—
“And now he lies in pearly bed,
“Which Sea-nymphs deck with coral red,—
“With silvery spar, and glossy shell,
“Cull'd from many a hidden cell:—
“Yet rushes o'er his body sweep,
“And weeds around his forehead creep;
“For he hath found a restless grave
“Within the dark and dreary deep;—
“And on his breast the shelving wave
“Is never known to sleep.

“And now I leave; but Safie, say,
“When I shall mingle with the clay,
“That thou, amidst thy gaiety,
“Wilt pause at times to think on me,—

“And then, perchance, a thought may rise,
“Of what was once our Paradise;—
“The early home,—the peaceful scene,—
“The joys that were and might have been.
“I'm now like one who long hath traced
“A weary and a lengthening waste,
“With travel and fatigue opprest,
“Who longs for, yet despairs of rest;—
“Whose prospect widens on the sight,
“And only ends with endless night;—
“Whose backward glance, with horror cast,
“Sees nought but woe and distance past,—
“And forward sees those troubles o'er
“Still darken on his way before.
“I cannot look, without a sigh,
“On every moment now gone by;—
“I cannot gaze, devoid of gloom,
“On every minute yet to come.

“But I shall meet a night's repose,
“An endless night to all my woes;—
“And soon the tree of death will wave
“In loneliness upon my grave;
“And, save the night wind, not a sound
“Will whisper o'er my charnel ground.

“Safie, farewell!—On earth farewell!—
“The light now glimmers in my cell,—
“The latest ray of earthly light
“That e'er will beam upon my sight:—
“At morn I shall be dead and chill,—
“My veins uncoursed,—my pulses still,—
“And not an eye will weep my fate,
“Nor o'er my sorrows ruminate;—
“A simple stone, perchance, may say
“Where Assad's body rots away:—

“The stone, perhaps, may ne'er be read!
“Nor Assad once remembered!
“No holy streamers now will wave
“With rich inscriptions o'er my grave

Banners with rich inscriptions are carried before the deceased, and deposited over their tombs. The inhabitants of the east being particularly fond of pomp, would not die easy, if they were not convinced that their last rites would be splendid.

“Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.”

Gray.

;—
“Whilst dying, if my woes be told,
“They'll be forgot—before I'm cold!
“Read, Safie! read:—and then confess
“That I deserved of sorrow less;—
“And should some stranger ask, then tell,
“I felt too keen,—I loved too well!”

'Tis told that Safie read the woes
Of Assad after evening's close,
When others coveted repose.
'Tis said she wept;—but tears will flow
In common at dissembled woe.

'Tis said she sigh'd;—but oft-times sighs
Will causeless in the bosom rise.
Oh! Safie mourn'd—when none was nigh
To chase the tear or check the sigh;—
When none was nigh to force a smile
To flutter on the cheek awhile,—
And make the mind forget its grief
In noisy mirth,—and find relief
A space,—although that space be brief!
The heart where thought and sadness brood,
When left to throb in solitude,
Finds former revels leave behind
A weariness upon the mind,—
With which nor mind—nor heart can cope,—
Which throws a languor over Hope.
Thus Safie felt when all were fled,
And she was left alone to dread:—

The hollow laugh would echo long,—
The thoughts of earlier mirth would throng;—
Till worn by watching, thought, and care,
She shrank from terror to despair!
'Tis told the maiden felt at last
A dreadful horror of the past,—
And shunn'd the light, and scorn'd repast;—
That pity she ne'er listen'd to,—
Nor comfort craved, nor wish'd below.
Thus drooping, Safie sought the grave,—
Nor art could e'er arrest or save;—
But at the last, one hectic blush
Was seen upon her cheek to rush;—
That came to promise, yet betray,
And only flutter'd, like the ray
That dances in the evening sky,
That lights awhile, but lights to die.

She journey'd lonely to her rest,—
Her heart was breaking in her breast;—
Yet hope, at last, appeared to throw
A cheering beam upon her woe,
Like ray of sun on winter's snow;—
And when her latest sigh was given,
It lit the maiden into heaven.
Thus true at last to Assad's love,
She long'd to meet his soul above:—
Thus Safie bless'd his memory
With many a fond departing sigh;
And loving with her latest breath,
She proved her faithfulness—in death!

THE END.