Crossed the wild race that round them dwell,
The very tigers from their delves
Look out, and let them pass, as things

Untamed and fearless like themselves!

There was a deep ravine that lay
Yet darkling in the Moslem's way;
Fit spot to make invaders rue
The many fallen before the few.
The torrents from that morning's sky
Had filled the narrow chasm breast-high,
And, on each side, aloft and wild,

Huge cliffs and toppling crags were piled,-
The guards with which young Freedom lines
The pathways to her mountain-shrines.
Here, at this pass, the scanty band
Of Iran's last avengers stand;
Here wait, in silence like the dead,
And listen for the Moslem's tread
So anxiously the carrion-bird
Above them flaps his wing unheard!

They come;-that plunge into the water
Gives signal for the work of slaughter.
Now, Ghebers, now,-if e'er your blades

Had point or prowess, prove them now;
Woe to the file that foremost wades!

They come,- -a falchion greets each brow, And, as they tumble, trunk on trunk, Beneath the gory waters sunk, Still o'er their drowning bodies press New victims quick and numberless; Till scarce an arm in Hafed's band,

So fierce their toil, hath power to stir, But listless from each crimson hand

The sword hangs, clogged with massacre.

Never was horde of tyrants met

With bloodier welcome,-never yet

To patriot vengeance hath the sword
More terrible libations poured!

All up the dreary long ravine,

By the red, murky glimmer seen

Of half quenched brands, that o'er the flood Lie scattered round and burn in blood,

What ruin glares! what carnage swims!
Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs,
Lost swords that, dropped from many a hand,
In that thick pool of slaughter stand;-
Wretches who, wading, half on fire

From the tossed brands that round them fly, 'Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire;

And some who, grasped by those that die, Sink woundless with them, smothered o'er In their dead brethren's gushing gore! But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed, Still hundreds, thousands more succeed:

Crushed 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
Towards 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,

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 escaped,-guide, torches gone;
By torrent-beds and labyrinths crossed,

The scattered 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, wildered by the far-off lights,

Yet glittering up those gloomy heights,
Their footing, mazed and lost, they miss,
And down the darkling precipice
Are dashed into the deep abyss;
Or midway hang, impaled 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,

Resigned, as if life's task were o'er,
Its last blood-offering amply paid,

And Iran's self could claim no more.

A voice spoke near him,-'twas the tone
Of a loved 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 roused 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
Even feebler, heavier than his own,
And up the painful pathway leads,
Death gaining on each step he treads.

Speed them, thou God, who heardst their vow!
They mount--they bleed-Oh save them now!
The crags are red they've clambered o'er,
The rock-weed's 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 gained 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 towards the flame
Bears him along;-with death-damp hand
The corse 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 harmed one glorious limb, expires!

A WOMAN'S POCKET.—JAMES M. BAILEY.

The most difficult thing to reach is a woman's pocket. This is especially the case if the dress is hung up in a closet, and the man is in a hurry. We think we are safe in saying that he always is in a hurry on such an occasion. The owner of the dress is in the sitting room serenely engrossed in a book. Having told him that the article which he is in quest of is in her dress pocket in the closet she has discharged her whole duty in the matter, and can afford to feel serene. He goes at the task with a dim consciousness that he has been there before, but says nothing. On opening the closet door and finding himself confronted with a number of dresses, all turned inside out, and presenting a most formidable front, he hastens back to ask "Which dress?" and being told the brown one, and also asked if she has so many dresses that there need be any great effort to find the right one, he returns to the closet with alacrity, and soon has his hands on the brown dress. It is inside out like the rest,-a fact he does not notice, however, until he has made several ineffectual attempts to get his hand into it. Then he turns it around very carefully and passes over the pocket several times without knowing it. A nervous movement of his hands, and an appearance of perspiration on

his forehead are perceptible. He now dives one hand in at the back, and feeling around, finds a place, and proceeds to explore it, when he discovers that he is following up the inside of a lining. The nervousness increases, also the perspiration. He twitches the dress on the hook, and suddenly the pocket, white, plump, and exasperating, comes to view. Then he sighs the relief he feels and is mentally grateful he did not allow himself to use any offensive expressions. It is all right now. There is the pocket in plain view-not the inside but the outside and all he has to do is to put his hand right around in the inside and take out the article. That is all. He can't help but smile to think how near he was to getting mad. Then he puts his hand around to the other side. He does not feel the opening. He pushes a little further-now he has got it; he shoves the hand down, and is very much surprised to see it appear opposite his knees. He had made a mistake. He tries again; again he feels the entrance and glides down it only to appear again as before. This makes him open his eyes and straighten his face. He feels of the outside of the pocket, pinches it curiously, lifts it up, shakes it, and after peering closely about the roots of it, he says, "By Gracious!" and commences again. He does it calmly this time, because hurrying only makes matters worse. He holds up breadth after breadth, goes over them carefully, gets his hand first into a lining, then into the air again (where it always surprises him when it appears), and finally into a pocket, and is about to cry out with triumph, when he discovers that it is the pocket to another dress. He is mad now; the closet air almost stifles him; he is so nervous he can hardly contain himself, and the pocket looks at him so exasperatingly that he cannot help but "plug" it with his clenched fist, and immediately does it. Being somewhat relieved by this performance he has a chance to look about him, and sees that he has put his foot through a band-box and into the