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

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      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."

      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 —

      A man of stalwart breadth and bone,

      A war-cloak round him spread.

      Full on the face the torches

      Flash out – a sudden cry

      (And those who heard it ne'er will lose

      Its echo till they die,)

      A sudden cry escapeth

      Mahmood's unguarded lips,

      A cry as of a suffering soul

      Redeemed from Hell's eclipse.

      "Oh, Allah! gracious Allah!

      Thy servant badly won

      This blessing to a father's heart,

      'Tis not – 'tis NOT my son!

      Fly! – tell my joy in Ghazna; —

      Before the night is done

      Let lighted shrine and blazing street

      Proclaim 'tis not my son!

      'Tis not Massoud, the wayward,

      Who thus the Law defied,

      Yet I deem'd that none but my only son

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