Who, on Cadessia’s bloody plains,
Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem
From Iran’s broken diadem,
And bind her ancient faith in chains: —
Ask the poor exile, cast alone
On foreign shores, unlov’d, unknown,
Beyond the Caspian’s Iron Gates,
Or on the snowy Mossian mountains,
Far from his beauteous land of dates,
Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains:
Jet happier so than if he trod
His own belov’d, but blighted, sod,
Beneath a despot stranger’s nod! —
Oh, he would rather houseless roam
Where Freedom and his God may lead,
Than be the sleekest slave at home
That crouches to the conqueror’s creed!
Is Iran’s pride then gone for ever,
Quench’d with the flame in Mithra’s caves? —
No — she has sons, that never — never —
Will stoop to be the Moslem’s slaves,
While heaven has light or earth has graves; —
Spirits of fire, that brood not long,
But flash resentment back for wrong;
And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds
Of vengeance ripen into deeds,
Till, in some treacherous hour of calm,
They burst, like Zeilan’s giant palm,
Whose buds fly open with a sound
That shakes the pigmy forests round!«
(Tamże str. 299-300).
Jeszcze raz w podobny sposób odzywa się u Moora bohater Hafed (str. 306-307), — ponieważ jednak słowa jego nie zawierają nic więcej pod względem myśli od podanych ustępów, pomijam je w tem miejscu. Z tego zaś, co przywiodłem a przywiodłem w całej rozciągłości, aby analogie i różnice między angielskim
