It is the boat--ah! why delayed?--
That bears the wretched Moslem maid;
Confided to the watchful care
Of a small veteran band with whom
Their generous Chieftain would not share
The secret of his final doom,
But hoped when HINDA safe and free
Was rendered to her father's eyes,
Their pardon full and prompt would be
The ransom of so dear a prize.--
Unconscious thus of HAFED'S fate,
And proud to guard their beauteous freight,
Scarce had they cleared the surfy waves
That foam around those frightful caves
When the curst war-whoops known so well
Came echoing from the distant dell--
Sudden each oar, upheld and still,
Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side,
And driving at the current's will,
They rockt along the whispering tide;
While every eye in mute dismay
Was toward that fatal mountain turned.
Where the dim altar's quivering ray
As yet all lone and tranquil burned.
Oh! 'tis not, HINDA, in the power
Of Fancy's most terrific touch
To paint thy pangs in that dread hour--
Thy silent agony--'twas such
As those who feel could paint too well,
But none e'er felt and lived to tell!
'Twas not alone the dreary state
Of a lorn spirit crusht by fate,
When tho' no more remains to dread
The panic chill will not depart;--
When tho' the inmate Hope be dead,
Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart;
No--pleasures, hopes, affections gone,
The wretch may bear and yet live on
Like things within the cold rock found
Alive when all's congealed around.
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