He felt it--deeply felt--and stood,
As if the tale had frozen his blood,
So mazed and motionless was he;--
Like one whom sudden spells enchant,
Or some mute, marble habitant
Of the still Halls of ISHMONIE![259]
But soon the painful chill was o'er,
And his great soul herself once more
Lookt from his brow in all the rays
Of her best, happiest, grandest days.
Never in moment most elate
Did that high spirit loftier rise:--
While bright, serene, determinate,
His looks are lifted to the skies,
As if the signal lights of Fate
Were shining in those awful eyes!
'Tis come--his hour of martyrdom
In IRAN'S sacred cause is come;
And tho' his life hath past away
Like lightning on a stormy day,
Yet shall his death-hour leave a track
Of glory permanent and bright
To which the brave of after-times,
The suffering brave, shall long look back
With proud regret,--and by its light
Watch thro' the hours of slavery's night
For vengeance on the oppressor's crimes.
This rock, his monument aloft,
Shall speak the tale to many an age;
And hither bards and heroes oft
Shall come in secret pilgrimage,
And bring their warrior sons and tell
The wondering boys where HAFED fell;
And swear them on those lone remains
Of their lost country's ancient fanes,
Never--while breath of life shall live
Within them--never to forgive
The accursed race whose ruthless chain
Hath left on IRAN'S neck a stain
Blood, blood alone can cleanse again!
Such are the swelling thoughts that now
Enthrone themselves on HAFED'S brow;
And ne'er did Saint of ISSA [260] gaze
On the red wreath for martyrs twined.
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