Fresh smell the shores of ARABY,
While breezes from the Indian sea
Blow round SELAMA'S[216] sainted cape
And curl the shining flood beneath,--
Whose waves are rich with many a grape
And cocoa-nut and flowery wreath
Which pious seamen as they past
Had toward that holy headland cast--
Oblations to the Genii there
For gentle skies and breezes fair!
The nightingale now bends her flight[217]
From the high trees where all the night
She sung so sweet with none to listen;
And hides her from the morning star
Where thickets of pomegranate glisten
In the clear dawn,--bespangled o'er
With dew whose night-drops would not stain
The best and brightest scimitar[218]
That ever youthful Sultan wore
On the first morning of his reign.
And see--the Sun himself!--on wings
Of glory up the East he springs.
Angel of Light! who from the time
Those heavens began their march sublime,
Hath first of all the starry choir
Trod in his Maker's steps of fire!
Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere,
When IRAN, like a sun-flower, turned
To meet that eye where'er it burned?--
When from the banks of BENDEMEER
To the nut-groves of SAMARCAND
Thy temples flamed o'er all the land?
Where are they? ask the shades of them
Who, on CADESSIA'S[219] bloody plains,
Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem
From IRAN'S broken diadem,
And bind her ancient faith in chains:--
Ask the poor exile cast alone
On foreign shores, unloved, unknown,
Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates,
Or on the snowy Mossian mountains,
Far from his beauteous land of dates,
Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains:
Yet happier so than if he trod
His own beloved but blighted sod
Beneath a despot stranger's nod!--
Oh, he would rather houseless roam
Where Freedom and his God may lead,
Than be the sleekest slave at home
That crouches to the conqueror's creed!
Is IRAN'S pride then gone for ever,
Quenched with the flame in MITHRA'S caves?
No--she has sons that never--never--
Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves
While heaven has light or earth has graves;--
Spirits of fire that brood not long
But flash resentment back for wrong;
And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds
Of vengeance ripen into deeds,
Till in some treacherous hour of calm
They burst like ZEILAN'S giant palm[220]
Whose buds fly open with a sound
That shakes the pigmy forests round!
Yes, EMIR! he, who scaled that tower,
And had he reached thy slumbering breast
Had taught thee in a Gheber's power
How safe even tyrant heads may rest--
Is one of many, brave as he,
Who loathe thy haughty race and thee;
Who tho' they knew the strife is vain,
Who tho' they know the riven chain
Snaps but to enter in the heart
Of him who rends its links apart,
Yet dare the issue,--blest to be
Even for one bleeding moment free
And die in pangs of liberty!
Thou knowest them well--'tis some moons since
Thy turbaned troops and blood-red flags,
Thou satrap of a bigot Prince,
Have swarmed among these Green Sea crags;
Yet here, even here, a sacred band
Ay, in the portal of that land
Thou, Arab, darest to call thy own,
Their spears across thy path have thrown;
Here--ere the winds half winged thee o'er--
Rebellion braved thee from the shore.
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