Oh! colder than the wind that freezes Founts, that but now in sunshine play’d, Is that congealing pang which seizes The trusting bosom, when betray’d. He felt it—deeply felt—and stood, As if the tale had frozen his blood, So maz’d and motionless was he;— Like one whom sudden spells enchant, Or some mute, marble habitant Of the still Halls of ISHMONIE![288] But soon the painful chill was o’er, And his great soul, herself once more, Look’d 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, though his life hath pass’d 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 through 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[289] gaze On the red wreath, for martyrs twin’d, More proudly than the youth surveys That pile, which through the gloom behind, Half lighted by the altar’s fire, Glimmers—his destin’d funeral pyre! Heap’d by his own, his comrades’ hands, Of every wood of odorous breath, There, by the Fire-God’s shrine it stands, Ready to fold in radiant death The few still left of those who swore To perish there, when hope was o’er— The few, to whom that couch of flame, Which rescues them from bonds and shame, Is sweet and welcome as the bed For their own infant Prophet spread, When pitying Heaven to roses turn’d The death-flames that beneath him burn’d![290]