Never did fierce ARABIA send A satrap forth more direly great; Never was IRAN doom’d to bend Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight. Her throne had fallen—her pride was crush’d— Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush’d, In their own land,—no more their own,— To crouch beneath a stranger’s throne. Her towers, where MITHRA once had burn’d, To Moslem shrines—oh shame!—were turn’d, Where slaves, converted by the sword, Their mean, apostate worship pour’d, And curs’d the faith their sires ador’d. Yet has she hearts, mid all this ill, O’er all this wreck high buoyant still With hope and vengeance;—hearts that yet— Like gems, in darkness, issuing rays They’ve treasur’d from the sun that’s set,— Beam all the light of long-lost days! And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow To second all such hearts can dare; As he shall know, well, dearly know, Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there, Tranquil as if his spirit lay Becalm’d in Heaven’s approving ray. Sleep on—for purer eyes than thine Those waves are hush’d, those planets shine; Sleep on, and be thy rest unmov’d By the white moonbeam’s dazzling power;— None but the loving and the lov’d Should be awake at this sweet hour. And see—where, high above those rocks That o’er the deep their shadows fling, Yon turret stands;—where ebon locks, As glossy as a heron’s wing Upon the turban of a king,[221] Hang from the lattice, long and wild— ’Tis she, that EMIR’S blooming child, All truth and tenderness and grace, Though born of such ungentle race;— An image of Youth’s radiant Fountain Springing in a desolate mountain![222] Oh what a pure and sacred thing Is Beauty, curtain’d from the sight Of the gross world, illumining One only mansion with her light! Unseen by man’s disturbing eye,— The flower that blooms beneath the sea, Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie Hid in more chaste obscurity. So, HINDA, have thy face and mind, Like holy mysteries, lain enshrin’d. And oh, what transport for a lover To lift the veil that shades them o’er!— Like those who, all at once, discover In the lone deep some fairy shore, Where mortal never trod before, And sleep and wake in scented airs No lip had ever breath’d but theirs. Beautiful are the maids that glide, On summer-eves, through YEMEN’S[223] dales, And bright the glancing looks they hide Behind their litters’ roseate veils;— And brides, as delicate and fair As the white jasmine flowers they wear, Hath YEMEN in her blissful clime, Who, lull’d in cool kiosk or bower,[224] Before their mirrors count the time,[225] And grow still lovelier every hour. But never yet hath bride or maid In ARABY’S gay Haram smil’d, Whose boasted brightness would not fade Before AL HASSAN’S blooming child.