And then it stopp’d close at the mountain’s base. 
Perizade straightway leapt from off her steed,
And threw the bridle on his arching neck
With calm caress, and left him neighing low;
One glance along the mountain, black and bare,
With low mists creeping o’er its rocky sides;
Mysterious exhalations veiling all the peak;
Dead silence—­O but for a passing wind
To mimic Life beside her living soul! 
Then upward with quick footsteps firm and bold. 
Before her myriad dull black stones lay strewn,
Fearful to see, and know that souls of men
Lay prison’d in their cold and heavy frames.—­
Sudden behind her sprang a mighty cry,
“Ho!  Traitress! turn, or die!” and evermore
Voices leapt out to wound her, like sharp swords,
With words of contumely, and mocking taunts,
Scoffs at her woman’s heart ’mid manhood’s guise,
Threats, rude defiances on every side. 
At first she clomb, nigh stunn’d with wrathful cries,
Now at her side, whilst she would shrink in fear
To feel the sword’s point pierce her fluttering heart,
Now from afar, below her and above,
Till she scarce breath’d, awaiting o’erturn’d rocks
To crush her in their fury as she went. 
Yet, minding well the Dervise, still she held
Her pale face forward, with eyes ever bent
Towards the misty summit far away.

More slowly soon her heart beat, and she laugh’d,
Like echo, at the scornful taunts and jeers;
“Scoff on!” she cried, “How small a thing it is
That scorn pursue us like a backward shade,
Whilst there is still the broad sun on before.” 
Weary and steep the path through cloud and mist,
Piercing the darkness on an unknown way;
But still she onward trod, and near’d the top,
Whence voices louder, fiercer ever came,
“Back, fool! intruder! sacrilegious wretch! 
Slay the mad climber! crush her to the dust!”
Once stood she half irresolute, her hands
Press’d hotly on her too oppressed heart;
But still she thirsted for the golden spring,
And with her soul made strength to reach the top,
Sighing, “Thus much Life lacks of perfectness,
In God’s name on to gain it then, or die!”

Upon the summit totter’d she at last: 
Far, far below the vapours tossing lay,
A great broad sea of heaving cloud and mist;
And upward the clear sky, as soft and blue
As a child’s heaven—­the sun unveil’d and bright. 
No wrathful voices hover’d round her now,
But low sweet music of Aeolian tone,
With all the sadness melted into joy. 
Unto the spring she hurried, breathing short,
And there the Golden Water bubbled up,
Like summer morning rising in the East,—­
A crystal chalice sparkled on the marge. 
She fill’d it from the precious tide in haste,
And raised the clear elixir to her lips;
And then, as at a draught from Lethe’s tide,
Her weariness pass’d from her suddenly,
And in her heart great peace and joy arose.