A voice spoke near him—’twas the tone Of a lov’d friend, the only one Of all his warriors, left with life From that short night’s tremendous strife.— “And must we then, my Chief, die here? “Foes round us, and the Shrine so near!” These words have rous’d the last remains Of life within him—“what! not yet “Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!” The thought could make e’en Death forget His icy bondage—with a bound He springs, all bleeding, from the ground, And grasps his comrade’s arm, now grown E’en feebler, heavier than his own, And up the painful pathway leads, Death gaining on each step he treads. Speed them, thou God, who heard’st their vow! They mount—they bleed—oh, save them now!— The crags are red they’ve clamber’d o’er, The rock-weeds dripping with their gore;— Thy blade too, HAFED, false at length, Now 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 gain’d 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 tow’rds 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 harm’d one glorious limb, expires!