But see—he starts—what heard he then? That dreadful shout!—across the glen From the land-side it comes, and loud Rings through the chasm; as if the crowd Of fearful things, that haunt that dell, Its Gholes and Dives and shapes of hell, Had all in one dread howl broke out, So loud, so terrible that shout! “They come—the Moslems come!” he cries, His proud soul mounting to his eyes,— “Now, Spirits of the Brave, who roam “Enfranchis’d through yon starry dome, “Rejoice—for souls of kindred fire “Are on the wing to join your choir!” He said—and, light as bridegrooms bound To their young loves, reclimb’d the steep And gain’d the Shrine—his Chiefs stood round— Their swords, as with instinctive leap, Together, at that cry accurst, Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst. And hark!—again—again it rings; Near and more near its echoings Peal through the chasm—oh! who that then Had seen those listening warrior-men, With their swords grasp’d, their eyes of flame Turn’d on their Chief—could doubt the shame, The’ indignant shame with which they thrill To hear those shouts and yet stand still? He read their thoughts—they were his own— “What! while our arms can wield these blades, “Shall we die tamely? die alone? “Without one victim to our shades, “One Moslem heart, where, buried deep, “The sabre from its toil may sleep? “No—God of IRAN’S burning skies! “Thou scorn’st the’ inglorious sacrifice. “No—though of all earth’s hope bereft, “Life, swords, and vengeance still are left. “We’ll make yon valley’s reeking caves “Live in the awe-struck minds of men, “Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves “Tell of the Ghebers’ bloody glen. “Follow, brave hearts!—this pile remains “Our refuge still from life and chains; “But his the best, the holiest bed, “Who sinks entomb’d in Moslem dead!” Down the precipitous rocks they sprung, While vigour, more than human, strung Each arm and heart.—The’ exulting foe Still through the dark defiles below, Track’d by his torches’ lurid fire, Wound slow, as through GOLCONDA’S vale[294] The mighty serpent, in his ire, Glides on with glittering, deadly trail. No torch the Ghebers need—so well They know each mystery of the dell, So oft have, in their wanderings, Cross’d the wild race that round them dwell, The very tigers from their delves Look out, and let them pass, as things Untam’d and fearless like themselves!