And see—the Sun himself!—on wings Of glory up the East he springs. Angel of Light! who from the time Those heavens began their march sublime, Hath first of all the starry choir Trod in his Maker’s steps of fire! Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere, When IRAN, like a sun-flower, turn’d To meet that eye where’er it burn’d?— When, from the banks of BENDEMEER To the nut-groves of SAMARCAND, Thy temples flam’d o’er all the land? Where are they? ask the shades of them Who, on CADESSIA’S[243] bloody plains, Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem From IRAN’S broken diadem, And bind her ancient faith in chains:— Ask the poor exile, cast alone On foreign shores, unlov’d, unknown, Beyond the Caspian’s Iron Gates,[244] Or on the snowy Mossian mountains, Far from his beauteous land of dates, Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains: Yet happier so than if he trod His own belov’d, but blighted, sod, Beneath a despot stranger’s nod!— Oh, he would rather houseless roam Where Freedom and his God may lead, Than be the sleekest slave at home That crouches to the conqueror’s creed! Is IRAN’S pride then gone for ever, Quench’d with the flame in MITHRA’S caves?— No—she has sons, that never—never— Will stoop to be the Moslem’s slaves, While heaven has light or earth has graves;— Spirits of fire, that brood not long, But flash resentment back for wrong; And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds Of vengeance ripen into deeds, Till, in some treacherous hour of calm, They burst, like ZEILAN’S giant palm,[245] Whose buds fly open with a sound That shakes the pigmy forests round! Yes, EMIR! he, who scal’d that tower, And, had he reach’d thy slumbering breast, Had taught thee, in a Gheber’s power How safe e’en tyrant heads may rest— Is one of many, brave as he, Who loathe thy haughty race and thee; Who, though they know the strife is vain, Who, though they know the riven chain Snaps but to enter in the heart Of him who rends its links apart, Yet dare the issue,—blest to be E’en for one bleeding moment free, And die in pangs of liberty! Thou know’st them well—’tis some moons since Thy turban’d troops and blood-red flags, Thou satrap of a bigot Prince, Have swarm’d among these Green Sea crags; Yet here, e’en here, a sacred band, Ay, in the portal of that land Thou, Arab, dar’st to call thy own, Their spears across thy path have thrown; Here—ere the winds half wing’d thee o’er— Rebellion brav’d thee from the shore.