Scarce had she time to ask her heart If good or ill these words impart, When the rous’d youth impatient flew To the tower-wall, where, high in view, A ponderous sea-horn[291] hung, and blew A signal, deep and dread as those The storm-fiend at his rising blows.— Full well his Chieftains, sworn and true Through life and death, that signal knew; For ’twas the’ appointed warring-blast, The’ alarm, to tell when hope was past, And the tremendous death-die cast! And there, upon the mouldering tower, Hath hung this sea-horn many an hour, Ready to sound o’er land and sea That dirge-note of the brave and free. They came—his Chieftains at the call Came slowly round, and with them all— Alas, how few!—the worn remains Of those who late o’er KERMAN’S plains Went gaily prancing to the clash Of Moorish zel and tymbalon, Catching new hope from every flash Of their long lances in the sun, And, as their coursers charg’d the wind, And the white ox-tails stream’d behind,[292] Looking, as if the steeds they rode Were wing’d, and every Chief a God! How fallen, how alter’d now! how wan Each scarr’d and faded visage shone, As round the burning shrine they came!— How deadly was the glare it cast, As mute they pass’d before the flame To light their torches as they pass’d! ’Twas silence all—the youth had plann’d The duties of his soldier-band; And each determin’d brow declares His faithful Chieftains well know theirs. But minutes speed—night gems the skies— And oh, how soon, ye blessed eyes, That look from heaven, ye may behold Sights that will turn your star-fires cold! Breathless with awe, impatience, hope, The maiden sees the veteran group Her litter silently prepare, And lay it at her trembling feet;— And now the youth, with gentle care, Hath placed her in the shelter’d seat, And press’d her hand—that lingering press Of hands, that for the last time sever; Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness, When that hold breaks, is dead for ever. And yet to _her_ this sad caress Gives hope—so fondly hope can err! ’Twas joy, she thought, joy’s mute excess— Their happy flight’s dear harbinger; ’Twas warmth—assurance—tenderness— ’Twas any thing but leaving her.