--
Panting with terror, joy, surprise,
The maid but lifts her wandering eyes,
To hide them on her Gheber's breast!
'Tis he, 'tis he--the man of blood,
The fellest of the Fire-fiend's brood,
HAFED, the demon of the fight,
Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,--
Is her own loved Gheber, mild
And glorious as when first he smiled
In her lone tower and left such beams
Of his pure eye to light her dreams,
That she believed her bower had given
Rest to some wanderer from heaven!
Moments there are, and this was one,
Snatched like a minute's gleam of sun
Amid the black Simoom's eclipse--
Or like those verdant spots that bloom
Around the crater's burning lips.
Sweetening the very edge of doom!
The past, the future--all that Fate
Can bring of dark or desperate
Around such hours but makes them cast
Intenser radiance while they last!
Even he, this youth--tho' dimmed and gone
Each Star of Hope that cheered him on--
His glories lost--his cause betrayed--
IRAN, his dear-loved country, made
A land of carcasses and slaves,
One dreary waste of chains and graves!
Himself but lingering, dead at heart,
To see the last, long struggling breath
Of Liberty's great soul depart,
Then lay him down and share her death--
Even he so sunk in wretchedness
With doom still darker gathering o'er him,
Yet, in this moment's pure caress,
In the mild eyes that shone before him,
Beaming that blest assurance worth
All other transports known on earth.
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