While thus she mus’d, her pinions fann’d The air of that sweet Indian land, Whose air is balm; whose ocean spreads O’er coral rocks, and amber beds:[166] Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem; Whose rivulets are like rich brides, Lovely, with gold beneath their tides; Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice Might be a Peri’s Paradise! But crimson now her rivers ran With human blood—the smell of death Came reeking from those spicy bowers, And man, the sacrifice of man, Mingled his taint with every breath Up wafted from the innocent flowers. Land of the Sun! what foot invades Thy Pagods and thy pillar’d shades[167]— Thy cavern shrines, and Idol stones, Thy Monarchs and their thousand Thrones?[168] ’Tis He of GAZNA[169]—fierce in wrath He comes, and INDIA’S diadems Lie scatter’d in his ruinous path.— His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, Torn from the violated necks Of many a young and lov’d Sultana;[170] Maidens, within their pure Zenana, Priests in the very fane he slaughters, And choaks up with the glittering wrecks Of golden shrines the sacred waters! Downward the PERI turns her gaze, And, through the war-field’s bloody haze Beholds a youthful warrior stand, Alone, beside his native river,— The red blade broken in his hand, And the last arrow in his quiver. “Live,” said the Conqueror, “live to share “The trophies and the crowns I bear!” Silent that youthful warrior stood— Silent he pointed to the flood All crimson with his country’s blood, Then sent his last remaining dart, For answer, to the’ Invader’s heart. False flew the shaft, though pointed well; The Tyrant liv’d, the Hero fell!— Yet mark’d the PERI where he lay, And, when the rush of war was past, Swiftly descending on a ray Of morning light, she caught the last— Last glorious drop his heart had shed, Before its free-born spirit fled! “Be this,” she cried, as she wing’d her flight, “My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. “Though foul are the drops that oft distil “On the field of warfare, blood like this, “For Liberty shed, so holy is,[171] “It would not stain the purest rill, “That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss! “Oh, if there be, on this earthly sphere, “A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, “’Tis the last libation Liberty draws “From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!” “Sweet,” said the Angel, as she gave The gift into his radiant hand, “Sweet is our welcome of the Brave “Who die thus for their native Land.— “But see—alas!—the crystal bar “Of Eden moves not—holier far “Than even this drop the boon must be, “That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!”