Seven nights have darken’d OMAN’S sea, Since last, beneath the moonlight ray, She saw his light oar rapidly Hurry her Gheber’s bark away,— And still she goes, at midnight hour, To weep alone in that high bower, And watch, and look along the deep For him whose smiles first made her weep;— But watching, weeping, all was vain, She never saw his bark again. The owlet’s solitary cry, The night-hawk, flitting darkly by, And oft the hateful carrion bird, Heavily flapping his clogg’d wing, Which reek’d with that day’s banqueting— Was all she saw, was all she heard. ’Tis the eighth morn—AL HASSAN’S brow Is brighten’d with unusual joy— What mighty mischief glads him now, Who never smiles but to destroy? The sparkle upon HERKEND’S Sea, When toss’d at midnight furiously,[261] Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh, More surely than that smiling eye! “Up, daughter, up—the KERNA’S[262] breath “Has blown a blast would waken death, “And yet thou sleep’st—up, child, and see “This blessed day for Heaven and me, “A day more rich in Pagan blood “Than ever flash’d o’er OMAN’S flood. “Before another dawn shall shine, “His head—heart—limbs—will all be mine; “This very night his blood shall steep “These hands all over ere I sleep!”— “_His_ blood!” she faintly scream’d—her mind Still singling _one_ from all mankind— “Yes—spite of his ravines and towers, “HAFED, my child, this night is ours. “Thanks to all-conquering treachery, “Without whose aid the links accurst, “That bind these impious slaves, would be “Too strong for ALLA’S self to burst! “That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread “My path with piles of Moslem dead, “Whose baffling spells had almost driven “Back from their course the Swords of Heaven, “This night, with all his band, shall know “How deep an Arab’s steel can go, “When God and Vengeance speed the blow. “And—Prophet! by that holy wreath “Thou wor’st on OHOD’S field of death,[263] “I swear, for every sob that parts “In anguish from these heathen hearts, “A gem from PERSIA’S plunder’d mines “Shall glitter on thy Shrine of Shrines. “But, ha!—she sinks—that look so wild— “Those livid lips—my child, my child, “This life of blood befits not thee, “And thou must back to ARABY. “Ne’er had I risk’d thy timid sex “In scenes that man himself might dread, “Had I not hop’d our every tread “Would be on prostrate Persian necks— “Curst race, they offer swords instead! “But cheer thee, maid,—the wind that now “Is blowing o’er thy feverish brow, “To-day shall waft thee from the shore; “And, ere a drop of this night’s gore “Have time to chill in yonder towers, “Thou’lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers!”