AMIR KHAN.
7
Such matchless skill the prophet knew,Such wond'rous feats his hand could do,That Persia's realm astonished saw,And Cashmere's valley gazed with awe!
Low bowed the lofty Amir Khan,Before the high and mighty man,And bending o'er the Naptha's stream,Which onward rolled its fiery gleam,The Subahdar in murmurs toldOf beauteous form, of bosom cold,Of rayless eye, of changeless cheek,Of tongue which could or would not speak.
At length the mourner's tale had ceased,He crossed his hands upon his breast;He spoke no word, he breathed no sigh,But keenly fixed his piercing eyeUpon Al Shinar's gloomy brow,In all the deep despair of woe.The Prophet paused; his eye he raised,And stern and earnestly he gazed,As if to pierce the sable veilWhich would conceal the mournful tale;When, starting with a sudden blow,He oped a portal dark and low,Which shrouded from each mortal eyeAl Shinar's cavern broad and high;'Twas bright, 'twas exquisitely bright,For founts of rich and living lightThere poured their burning treasures forth,Which sought again their parent earth.
