Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 58, No. 359, September 1845

And bars and holds my dwelling
Until the dawning gray —
Then, ere the light his face can smite,
The felon slinks away.
Such is the household safety
We owe to thine and thee: —
Thou'st heard me first, do now thy worst,
Son of Sebactagi!"

VI

What tongue may tell the terror
That thrill'd that chamber wide,
While thus the Dust beneath his feet
Reviled the Ghaznavide!
The listeners' breath suspended,
They wait but for a word,
To sweep away the worm that frets
The pathway of their Lord.
But Mahmood makes no signal;
Surprise at first subdued,
Then shame and anger seem'd by turns
To root him where he stood.
But as the tale proceeded,
Some deadlier passion's hue,
Now flushing dark, now fading wan,
Across his forehead flew.
And when those daring accents
Had died upon his ear,
He sat him down in reverie
Upon the musnud near,
And in his robe he shrouded
For a space his dreadful brow;
Then strongly, sternly, rose and spoke
To the Stranger far below —
"At once, depart! – in silence: —
And at the moment when
The Spoiler seeks thy dwelling next,
Be with Us here again."

VII

Three days the domes of Ghazna
Have gilded Autumn's sky —
Three moonless nights of Autumn
Have slowly glided by.
And now the fourth deep midnight
Is black upon the town,
When from the palace-portals, led
By that grim Stranger at their head,
A troop, all silent as the dead,
With spears, and torches flashing red,
Wind towards the suburbs down.
On foot they march, and midmost
Mahmood the Ghaznavide
Is marching there, his kingly air
Alone not laid aside.
In his fez no ruby blazeth,
No diamonds clasp his vest;
But a light as red is in his eye,
As restless in his breast.
And none who last beheld him
In his superb Divan
Would deem three days could cause his cheek
To look so sunk and wan.
The gates are pass'd in silence,
They march with noiseless stride,
'Till before a lampless dwelling
Stopp'd their grim and sullen guide.
In a little grove of cypress,
From the city-walls remote,
It darkling stood: – He faced Mahmood,
And pointed to the spot.
The Sultan paused one moment
To ease his kaftan's band,
That on his breast too tightly prest,
Then motion'd with his hand: —

"My mace! – put out the torches —
Watch well that none may flee:
Now, force the door, and shut me in,
And leave the rest to me."
He spoke, 'twas done; the wicket
Swung wide – then closed again:
Within stand Mahmood, night, and Lust —
Without, his watching men.
Their watch was short – a struggle —
A sullen sound – a groan —
A breathless interval – and forth
The Sultan comes alone.
None through the pitchy darkness
Might look upon his face,
But they felt the storm that shook him
As he lean'd upon that mace.
Back from his brow the turboosh
He push'd – then calmly said,
"Re-light the torches, enter there,
And bring me forth the dead."
They light the torches, enter,
And bring him forth the dead —