Such was the wild and miscellaneous host, That high in air their motley banners tost Around the Prophet-Chief-all eyes still bent Upon that glittering Veil, where'er it went, That beacon through the battle's stormy flood, That rainbow of the field, whose showers were blood!
Twice hath the Sun upon their conflict set, And risen again, and found them grappling yet; While steams of carnage, in his noon-tide blaze, Smoke up to heaven-hot as that crimson haze By which the prostrate Caravan is awed,
In the Red Desert, when the wind's abroad!
On, Swords of God!" the panting CALIPH calls,"Thrones for the living-Heaven for him who falls!"“On, brave avengers, on," MOKANNA cries,
"And EBLIS blast the recreant slave that flies!"
Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day—
They clash-they strive-the CALIPH's troops give way!
MOKANNA'S self plucks the black Banner down,
And now the Orient World's imperial crown
Is just within his grasp—when, hark, that shout!
Some hand hath check'd the flying Moslems' rout,
And now they turn-they rally—at their head
A warrior (like those angel youths, who led,
In glorious panoply of heaven's own mail,
The Champions of the Faith through BEDER'S vale), *
Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives,
Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and drives
At once the multitudinous torrent back,
While hope and courage kindle in his track,
And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes
Terrible vistas through which victory breaks!
In vain MOKANNA, 'midst the general flight,
Stands, like the red moon on some stormy night,
Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by,
Leave only her unshaken in the sky!--
In vain he yells his desperate curses out,
Deals death promiscuously to all about,
To foes that charge, and coward friends that fly,
And seems of all the Great Arch-enemy!
The panic spreads-" a miracle!" throughout
The Moslem ranks, a miracle!" they shout,
In the great victory gained by Mahomed at Beder, he was assisted, say the Mussulmans, by three thousand angels, led by Gabriel mounted on his horse Hiazum.-See The Koran and its Commentators.
All gazing on that youth, whose coming seems
A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams;
And every sword, true as o'er billows dim
The needle tracks the load-star, following him!
Right tow'rds MOKANNA now he cleaves his path, Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath He bears from Heaven withheld its awful burst From weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst, To break o'er Him, the mightiest and the worst! But vain his speed-though in that hour of blood, Had all God's seraphs round MOKANNA stood, With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall, MOKANNA'S Soul would have defied them all; Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong For human force, hurries even him along; In vain he struggles 'mid the wedged array Of flying thousands,-he is borne away; And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows In this forced flight is—murdering, as he goes! As a grim tiger, whom the torrent's might Surprises in some parch'd ravine at night, Turns, even in drowning, on the wretched flocks
Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks,
And, to the last, devouring on his way,
Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay!
“Alla il Alla !”—the glad shout renew—
“Alla Akbar!”*—the Caliph's in MEROU.
Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets,
And light your shrines and chaunt your ziraleets; †
The Swords of God have triumph'd-on his throne
Your Caliph sits, and the Veil'd Chief hath flown.
Who does not envy that young warrior now,
To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow,
In all the graceful gratitude of power,
For his throne's safety in that perilous hour?
Who doth not wonder, when, amidst the acclaim
Of thousands, heralding to heaven his name-
'Mid all those holier harmonies of fame,
Which sound along the path of virtuous souls,
Like music round a planet as it rolls!——
He turns away coldly, as if some gloom
Hung o'er his heart no triumphs can illume ;-
* The Tecbir, or cry of the Arabs. OCKLEY, means God is most mighty."
The ziraleet is a kind of chorus which the women of the East sing upon joyful occasions.-RUSSEL.
Some sightless grief, upon whose blasted gaze
Though glory's light may play, in vain it plays !
Yes, wretched AZIM! thine is such a grief,
Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief;
A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break,
Or warm or brighten,-like that Syrian Lake,
Upon whose surface morn and summer shed
Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead!—
Hearts there have been, o'er which this weight of woe
Came by long use of suffering, tame and slow;
But thine, lost youth! was sudden-over thee
It broke at once, when all seem'd extacy ;
When Hope look'd up, and saw the gloomy past
Melt into splendour, and bliss dawn at last-
'Twas then, even then, o'er joys so freshly blown,
This mortal blight of misery came down ;
Even then, the full, warm gushings of thy heart
Were check'd-liké fount-drops, frozen as they start!
And there, like them, cold, sunless relics hang,
Each fix'd and chill'd into a lasting pang!
One sole desire, one passion now remains, To keep life's fever still within his veins,
*The Dead Sea, which contains neither animal nor vegetable life.
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