What shriek was that on OMAN’S tide? It came from yonder drifting bark, That just hath caught upon her side The death-light—and again is dark. It is the boat—ah, why delay’d?— 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 hop’d when HINDA, safe and free, Was render’d 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 clear’d 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 rock’d along the whispering tide; While every eye, in mute dismay, Was tow’rd that fatal mountain turn’d, Where the dim altar’s quivering ray As yet all lone and tranquil burn’d. 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 crush’d by fate, When, though no more remains to dread, The panic chill will not depart;— When, though 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 congeal’d around. But there’s a blank repose in this, A calm stagnation, that were bliss To the keen, burning, harrowing pain, Now felt through all thy breast and brain;— That spasm of terror, mute, intense, That breathless, agonis’d suspense, From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching, The heart hath no relief but breaking!