And up the painful pathway leads,
Death gaining on each step he treads.
Speed them, thou God, who heardest their vow!
They mount--they bleed--oh save them now--
The crags are red they've clambered o'er,
The rock-weed's dripping with their gore;--
Thy blade too, HAFED, false at length,
How breaks beneath thy tottering strength!
Haste, haste--the voices of the Foe
Come near and nearer from below--
One effort more--thank Heaven! 'tis past,
They've gained the topmost steep at last.
And now they touch the temple's walls.
Now HAFED sees the Fire divine--
When, lo!--his weak, worn comrade falls
Dead on the threshold of the shrine.
"Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled!
"And must I leave thee withering here,
"The sport of every ruffian's tread,
"The mark for every coward's spear?
"No, by yon altar's sacred beams!"
He cries and with a strength that seems
Not of this world uplifts the frame
Of the fallen Chief and toward the flame
Bears him along; with death-damp hand
The corpse upon the pyre he lays,
Then lights the consecrated brand
And fires the pile whose sudden blaze
Like lightning bursts o'er OMAN'S Sea.--
"Now, Freedom's God! I come to Thee,"
The youth exclaims and with a smile
Of triumph vaulting on the pile,
In that last effort ere the fires
Have harmed one glorious limb expires!
What shriek was that on OMAN'S tide?
It came from yonder drifting bark,
That just hath caught upon her side
The death-light--and again is dark.
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