“For _me_—I too must die—but not like these “Vile, rankling things, to fester in the breeze; “To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown, “With all death’s grimness added to its own, “And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes “Of slaves, exclaiming, ‘There his Godship lies! “No—cursed race—since first my soul drew breath, “They’ve been my dupes, and _shall_ be even in death. “Thou see’st yon cistern in the shade—’tis fill’d “With burning drugs, for this last hour distill’d:[147]— “There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame— “Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet’s frame!— “There perish, all—ere pulse of thine shall fail— “Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale. “So shall my votaries, wheresoe’er they rave, “Proclaim that Heaven took back the Saint it gave;— “That I’ve but vanish’d from this earth awhile, “To come again, with bright, unshrouded smile! “So shall they build me altars in their zeal, “Where knaves shall minister, and fools shall kneel; “Where Faith may mutter o’er her mystic spell, “Written in blood—and Bigotry may swell “The sail he spreads for Heaven with blasts from hell! “So shall my banner, through long ages, be “The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy:— “Kings yet unborn shall rue MOKANNA’S name, “And, though I die, my spirit, still the same, “Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife, “And guilt, and blood, that were its bliss in life. “But, hark! their battering engine shakes the wall— “Why, _let_ it shake—thus I can brave them all. “No trace of me shall greet them, when they come, “And I can trust thy faith, for—thou’lt be dumb. “Now mark how readily a wretch like me, “In one bold plunge, commences Deity!” He sprung and sunk, as the last words were said— Quick clos’d the burning waters o’er his head, And ZELICA was left—within the ring Of those wide walls the only living thing; The only wretched one, still curs’d with breath, In all that frightful wilderness of death! More like some bloodless ghost—such as, they tell, In the lone Cities of the Silent[148] dwell, And there, unseen of all but ALLA, sit Each by its own pale carcass, watching it. But morn is up, and a fresh warfare stirs Throughout the camp of the beleaguerers. Their globes of fire (the dread artillery lent By GREECE to conquering MAHADI) are spent; And now the scorpion’s shaft, the quarry sent From high balistas, and the shielding throng Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along, All speak the’ impatient Islamite’s intent To try, at length, if tower and battlement And bastion’d wall be not less hard to win, Less tough to break down than the hearts within. First in impatience and in toil is he, The burning AZIM—oh! could he but see The’ Impostor once alive within his grasp, Not the gaunt lion’s hug, nor boa’s clasp, Could match that gripe of vengeance, or keep pace With the fell heartiness of Hate’s embrace!