All up the dreary, long ravine,
By the red, murky glimmer seen
Of half-quench’d brands that o’er the flood
Lie scatter’d round and burn in blood,
What ruin glares! what carnage swims!
Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs,
Lost swords that, dropp’d from many a hand,
In that thick pool of slaughter stand;—
Wretches who wading, half on fire
From the toss’d brands that round them fly,
’Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire;—
And some who, grasp’d by those that die,
Sink woundless with them, smother’d o’er
In their dead brethren’s gushing gore!
But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed,
Still hundreds, thousands more succeed;
Countless as tow’rds some flame at night
The North’s dark insects wing their flight,
And quench or perish in its light,
To this terrific spot they pour—
Till, bridg’d with Moslem bodies o’er,
It bears aloft their slippery tread,
And o’er the dying and the dead,
Tremendous causeway! on they pass.
Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas,
What hope was left for you? for you,
Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice
Is smoking in their vengeful eyes?—
Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew,
And burn with shame to find how few?
Crush’d down by that vast multitude,
Some found their graves where first they stood;
While some with hardier struggle died,
And still fought on by Hafed’s side,
Who, fronting to the foe, trod back
Tow’rds the high towers his gory track;
And, as a lion swept away
By sudden swell of Jordan’s pride
From the wild covert where he lay,
[295]Long battles with the o’erwhelming tide,
So fought he back with fierce delay,
And kept both foes and fate at bay.
But whither now? their track is lost,
Their prey escap’d—guide, torches gone—
By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost,
The scatter’d crowd rush blindly on—
“Curse on those tardy lights that wind,”
They panting cry, “so far behind;
“Oh for a bloodhound’s precious scent,
“To track the way the Gheber went!”
Vain wish—confusedly along
They rush, more desperate as more wrong:
Till, wilder’d by the far-off lights,
Yet glittering up those gloomy heights,
Their footing, maz’d and lost, they miss,
And down the darkling precipice
Are dash’d into the deep abyss;
Or midway hang, impal’d on rocks,
A banquet, yet alive, for flocks
Of ravening vultures,—while the dell
Re-echoes with each horrible yell.
Those sounds—the last to vengeance dear,
That e’er shall ring in Hafed’s ear,—
Now reached him, as aloft, alone,
Upon the steep way breathless thrown,
He lay beside his reeking blade,
Resign’d, as if life’s task were o’er,
Its last blood-offering amply paid,
And Iran’s self could claim no more.
One only thought, one lingering beam
Now broke across his dizzy dream
Of pain and weariness—’twas she,
His heart’s pure planet, shining yet
Above the waste of memory,
When all life’s other lights were set.
And never to his mind before
Her image such enchantment wore.
It seem’d as if each thought that stain’d,
Each fear that chill’d their loves was past,
And not one cloud of earth remain’d
Between him and her radiance cast;—
As if to charms, before so bright,
New grace from other worlds was given,
And his soul saw her by the light
Now breaking o’er itself from heaven!
A voice spoke near him—’twas the tone
Of a lov’d friend, the only one
Of all his warriors, left with life
From that short night’s tremendous strife.—
“And must we then, my Chief, die here?
“Foes round us, and the Shrine so near!”
These words have rous’d the last remains
Of life within him—“what! not yet
“Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!”
The thought could make e’en Death forget
His icy bondage—with a bound
He springs, all bleeding, from the ground,
And grasps his comrade’s arm, now grown
E’en feebler, heavier than his own,
And up the painful pathway leads,
Death gaining on each step he treads.
Speed them, thou God, who heard’st their vow!
They mount—they bleed—oh, save them now!—
The crags are red they’ve clamber’d o’er,
The rock-weeds dripping with their gore;—
Thy blade too, Hafed, false at length,
Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength!
Haste, haste—the voices of the Foe
Come near and nearer from below—
One effort more—thank Heaven! ’tis past,
They’ve gain’d the topmost steep at last.
And now they touch the temple’s walls,
Now Hafed sees the Fire divine—
When, lo!—his weak, worn comrade falls
Dead on the threshold of the Shrine.
“Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled!
“And must I leave thee withering here,
“The sport of every ruffian’s tread,
“The mark for every coward’s spear?
“No, by yon altar’s sacred beams!”
He cries, and, with a strength that seems
Not of this world, uplifts the frame
Of the fallen Chief, and tow’rds the flame
Bears him along;—with death-damp hand
The corpse upon the pyre he lays,
Then lights the consecrated brand,
And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze
Like lightning bursts o’er Oman’s Sea.—
“Now, Freedom’s God! I come to Thee,”
The youth exclaims, and with a smile
Of triumph vaulting on the pile
In that last effort, ere the fires
Have harm’d one glorious limb, expires!