’Twas night when to those towers they came, And gloomily the fitful flame, That from the ruin’d altar broke, Glar’d on his features, as he spoke:— “’Tis o’er—what men could do, we’ve done— “If IRAN _will_ look tamely on, “And see her priests, her warriors driven “Before a sensual bigot’s nod, “A wretch, who shrines his lusts in heaven, “And makes a pander of his God; “If her proud sons, her high-born souls, “Men, in whose veins—oh last disgrace! “The blood of ZAL and RUSTAM[254] rolls,— “If they _will_ court this upstart race, “And turn from MITHRA’S ancient ray, “To kneel at shrines of yesterday; “If they _will_ crouch to IRAN’S foes, “Why, let them—till the land’s despair “Cries out to Heaven, and bondage grows “Too vile for e’en the vile to bear! “Till shame at last, long hidden, burns “Their inmost core, and conscience turns “Each coward tear the slave lets fall “Back on his heart in drops of gall. “But _here_, at least, are arms unchain’d, “And souls that thraldom never stain’d;— “This spot, at least, no foot of slave “Or satrap ever yet profan’d; “And though but few—though fast the wave “Of life is ebbing from our veins, “Enough for vengeance still remains. “As panthers, after set of sun, “Rush from the roots of LEBANON “Across the dark sea-robber’s way,[255] “We’ll bound upon our startled prey; “And when some hearts that proudest swell “Have felt our falchion’s last farewell; “When Hope’s expiring throb is o’er, “And e’en despair can prompt no more, “This spot shall be the sacred grave “Of the last few who, vainly brave, “Die for the land they cannot save!” His Chiefs stood round—each shining blade Upon the broken altar laid— And though so wild and desolate Those courts, where once the Mighty sate; No longer on those mouldering towers Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers, With which of old the Magi fed The wandering Spirits of their Dead;[256] Though neither priest nor rites were there, Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate;[257] Nor hymn, nor censer’s fragrant air, Nor symbol of their worshipp’d planet;[258] Yet the same God that heard their sires Heard _them_, while on that altar’s fires They swore[259] the latest, holiest deed Of the few hearts, still left to bleed, Should be, in IRAN’S injur’d name, To die upon that Mount of Flame— The last of all her patriot line, Before her last untrampled Shrine!