darted thought, his quiver and his bow
And parted by his limbs the sparkling billows sung.

[FN#11] The women, I believe, among all nations of antiquity were accustomed to express violent grief by tearing their hair. This must have been a great and affecting sacrifice to the object bemoaned, as they considered it a part of themselves and absolutely essential to their beauty. Fine hair has been a subject of commendation among all people, and particularly the ancients. Cyrus, when he went to visit his uncle Astyages found him with his eyelashes coloured, and decorated with false locks; the first Caesar obtained permission to wear the laurel-wreath in order to conceal the bareness of his temples. The quantity and beauty of the hair of Absalom is commemorated in holy writ. The modern oriental ladies also set the greatest value on their hair which they braid and perfume. Thus says the poet Hafiz, whome Sir William Jones styles the Anacreon of Persia,

"Those locks, each curl of which is worth a hundred musk-bags of China, would be sweet indeed, if their scent proceeded from sweetness of temper."

and again,

"When the breeze shall waft the fragrance of thy locks over the tomb of Hafiz, a thousand flowers shall spring from the earth that hides his corse."

Achilles clipped his yellow locks and threw them as a sacrifice upon the funeral pyre of Patroclus.

XVII.

"They clung to an old palm and watched; nor breath
Nor word dared utter; while the refluent flood
Left on each countenance the hue of death,
Ope'd lip and far strained eye spoke worse than death endured.

XVIII.

"But, down the flood, the dauntless boy appeared,—
Now rising—plunging—in the eddy whirled—
Mastering his course—but now a rock he neared—
And closing o'er his head, the deep, dark waters curled.

"Then Hope groaned forth her last; and drear despair
Spoke in a shriek; but ere its echo wild
Had ceased to thrill; restored to light and air—
He climbs, he gains the rock, and holds alive the child.

XIX.

"Now mark what chanced—that infant was the son
E'vn of the king of Nineveh: and placed
Before him was the youth who so had won
From death the royal heir. A captive graced

"All o'er with Nature's gifts he sparkled—brave
And panting for renown—blushing and praised
The stripling stood; and closely prest, would crave
Alone a place mid warlike men; and raised

"To his full wish, the kingly presence left,
Buoyant and bright with hope; dreaming of nought
While revelled his full soul in visions deft,
But blessings from his sire and pleasures of a court.

XX.

"But when his mother heard, she wept; and said
If he our only child be far away
Or slain in war; how shall our years be stayed?
Friendless and old, where is the hand to lay

"Our white hairs in the earth?—So when her fears
He saw would not be calmed, he did not part,
But lived in low estate, to dry her tears,
And crushed the full-grown-hopes, exulting at his heart."

XXI.

"The old man ceased; ere I could speak, his face
Grew more than mortail fair: a mellow light
Mantling around him fill'd the shady place
And while I wondering stood; he vanished from my sight.

XXII.

"This I had told,—but shame withheld—and fear
Thou'dst deem some spirit guilded me—disapprove—
Perchance forbid my customed wanderings here;
But whencesoe'er the vision, I have strove

"Still vainly to forget—I've heard the mourn
Kindred afar, and captive—oh! my mother—
Should he—my heaven announced—exist, return—
And meet me drear—lost—wedded to another"—

Then thus Sephora, "In the city where
Our kindred distant dwelt—blood has been shed—
Dreamer, had such heroic boy been there,
Belike he's numbered with the silent dead.

"Or doth he live he knows not—would not know
(Thralled—dead, to thee—in fair Assyrian arms.)
Who pines for him afar in fruitless woe
A phantom's bride—wasting love, life and charms.

XXIII.

"'Tis as a vine of Galilee should say,
Culturer, I reck not thy support, I sigh
For a young palm tree, of Euphrates; nay—
Or let me him entwine or in my blossom die.

"Thy heart is set on joys it may not prove,
And, panting ingrate, scorns the blessings given?—
Hoping from dust formed man, a seraph's love
And days on earth like to the days of heaven.

XXIV.

"But to my theme, maiden, a lord for thee,
And not of thee unworthy—I have chose—
Dispel the dread, that in thy looks I see—
Nor make it task of anguish to disclose,

"What should be—thine heart's dew. Remember'st thou
When to the Altar, by thy father reared,
We suppliant went with sacrifice and vow,
A victim-dove escaped? and there appeared

"And would have brought thee others to supply
Its loss, a Median?—thou, dissolved, to praise,
Didst note the beauty of his shape and eye,
And, as he parted, in the sunny rays

"The ringlets of his black locks clustering bright
Around his pillar-neck," ''tis pity he'
Thou saidst, 'in all the comeliness and might
Of perfect man—pity like him, should be

"But an idolater: how nobly sweet
He tempereth pride with courtesy; a flower
Drops honey when he speaks. Yet 'twere most meet
To praise his majesty: he stands—a tower.'

"The same, a false idolater no more,
Now bows him to the God, for whose dread ire
Fall'n on us loved but sinning, we deplore
This long but just captivity. Thy sire

"Receives him well and harkens his request
For know, he comes to ask thee-for a bride
And to be one among a people, blest
Tho' deep in suffering. Nor to him denied

"Art thou, sad daughter—weep—if't be thy will—
E'vn on the breast that nourished thee and ne'er
Distrest thee or compelled; this bosom still
Ev'n should'st though blight its dearest hopes, will share

"Nay, bear thy pains; but sooner in the grave
'Twill quench my waning years, if reckless thou
Of what I not command, but only crave,
Let my heart pine regardless of thy vow."

XXV.

She thus, 'O think not, kindest, I forget,
Receiving so much love, how much is due
From me to thee: the Mede I'll wed—but yet
I cannot stay these tears that gush to pain thy view.'

XXVI.

Sephora held her to heart, the while
Grief had its way—then saw her gently laid
And bade her, kissing her blue eyes, beguile
Slumbering the fervid noon. Her leafy bed

Sighed forth o'erpowering breath; increased the heat;
Sleepless had been the night; her weary sense
Could now no more. Lone in the still retreat,
Wounding the flowers to