In vain with mingled hope and fear,
She looks for him whose voice so dear
Had come, like music, to her ear,--
Strange, mocking dream! again 'tis fled.
And oh, the shoots, the pangs of dread
That thro' her inmost bosom run,
When voices from without proclaim
"HAFED, the Chief"--and, one by one,
The warriors shout that fearful name!
He comes--the rock resounds his tread--
How shall she dare to lift her head
Or meet those eyes whose scorching glare
Not YEMEN'S boldest sons can bear?
In whose red beam, the Moslem tells,
Such rank and deadly lustre dwells
As in those hellish fires that light
The mandrake's charnel leaves at night.[258]
How shall she bear that voice's tone,
At whose loud battle-cry alone
Whole squadrons oft in panic ran,
Scattered like some vast caravan,
When stretched at evening round the well
They hear the thirsting tiger's yell.
Breathless she stands with eyes cast down
Shrinking beneath the fiery frown
Which, fancy tells her, from that brow
Is flashing o'er her fiercely now:
And shuddering as she hears the tread
Of his retiring warrior band.--
Never was pause full of dread;
Till HAFED with a trembling hand
Took hers and leaning o'er her said,
"HINDA;"--that word was all he spoke.
And 'twas enough--the shriek that broke
From her full bosom told the rest.
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