THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM.

Who has not heard of the Vale of CASHMERE,

With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,

Its temples and grottos and fountains as clear

As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?

Oh! to see it at sunset,— when warm o'er the Lake

Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws,

Like a bride full of blushes when lingering to take

A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!—

When the shrines thro’ the foliage are gleaming half shown,

And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own.

Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells,

Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging,

And here at the altar a zone of sweet bells

Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.

Or to see it by moonlight when mellowly shines

The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines,

When the water-falls gleam like a quick fall of stars

And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars

Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet

From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet.—

Or at morn when the magic of daylight awakes

A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks,

Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one

Out of darkness as if but just born of the Sun.

When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day

From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away;

And the wind full of wantonness wooes like a lover

The young aspen-trees, till they tremble all over.

When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes,

And day with his banner of radiance unfurled

Shines in thro’ the mountainous portalthat opes,

Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world!

But never yet by night or day,

In dew of spring or summer's ray,

Did the sweet Valley shine so gay

As now it shines — all love and light,

Visions by day and feasts by night!

A happier smile illumes each brow;

With quicker spread each heart uncloses,

And all is ecstasy — for now

The Valley holds its Feast of Roses;

The joyous Time when pleasures pour

Profusely round and in their shower

Hearts open like the Season's Rose,—

The Floweret of a hundred leaves

Expanding while the dew-fall flows

And every leaf its balm receives.

‘ Twas when the hour of evening came

Upon the Lake, serene and cool,

When day had hid his sultry flame

Behind the palms of BARAMOULE,

When maids began to lift their heads.

Refresht from their embroidered beds

Where they had slept the sun away,

And waked to moonlight and to play.

All were abroad:— the busiest hive

On BELA'Shills is less alive

When saffron-beds are full in flower,

Than lookt the Valley in that hour.

A thousand restless torches played

Thro’ every grove and island shade;

A thousand sparkling lamps were set

On every dome and minaret;

And fields and pathways far and near

Were lighted by a blaze so clear

That you could see in wandering round

The smallest rose-leaf on the ground,

Yet did the maids and matrons leave

Their veils at home, that brilliant eve;

And there were glancing eyes about

And cheeks that would not dare shine out

In open day but thought they might

Look lovely then, because‘ twas night.

And all were free and wandering

And all exclaimed to all they met,

That never did the summer bring

So gay a Feast of Roses yet;—

The moon had never shed a light

So clear as that which blest them there;

The roses ne'er shone half so bright,

Nor they themselves lookt half so fair.

And what a wilderness of flowers!

It seemed as tho’ from all the bowers

And fairest fields of all the year,

The mingled spoil were scattered here.

The lake too like a garden breathes

With the rich buds that o'er it lie,—

As if a shower of fairy wreaths

Had fallen upon it from the sky!

And then the sounds of joy,— the beat

Of tabors and of dancing feet;—

The minaret-crier's chant of glee

Sung from his lighted gallery,

And answered by a ziraleet

From neighboring Haram, wild and sweet;—

The merry laughter echoing

From gardens where the silken swing

Wafts some delighted girl above

The top leaves of the orange-grove;

Or from those infant groups at play

Among the tentsthat line the way,

Flinging, unawed by slave or mother,

Handfuls of roses at each other.—

Then the sounds from the Lake,— the low whispering in boats,

As they shoot thro’ the moonlight,— the dipping of oars

And the wild, airy warbling that everywhere floats

Thro’ the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores

Like those of KATHAY uttered music and gave

An answer in song to the kiss on each wave.

But the gentlest of all are those sounds full of feeling

That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing,—

Some lover who knows all the heart-touching power

Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour.

Oh! best of delights as it everywhere is

To be near the loved One,— what a rapture is his

Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide

O'er the Lake of CASHMERE with that One by his side!

If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,

Think, think what a Heaven she must make of CASHMERE!

So felt the magnificent Son of ACBAR,

When from power and pomp and the trophies of war

He flew to that Valley forgetting them all

With the Light of the HARAM, his young NOURMAHAL.

When free and uncrowned as the Conqueror roved

By the banks of that Lake with his only beloved

He saw in the wreaths she would playfully snatch

From the hedges a glory his crown could not match,

And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curled

Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world.

There's a beauty for ever unchangingly bright,

Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day's light,

Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender

Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor.

This was not the beauty — oh, nothing like this

That to young NOURMAHAL gave such magic of bliss!

But that loveliness ever in motion which plays

Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days,

Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies

From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes;

Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams,

Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heaven in his dreams.

When pensive it seemed as if that very grace,

That charm of all others, was born with her face!

And when angry,— for even in the tranquillest climes

Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes —

The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken

New beauty like flowers that are sweetest when shaken.

If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eye

At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,

From the depth of whose shadow like holy revealings

From innermost shrines came the light of her feelings.

Then her mirth — oh!‘ twas sportive as ever took wing

From the heart with a burst like the wild-bird in spring;

Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages,

Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages.

While her laugh full of life, without any control

But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul;

And where it most sparkled no glance could discover,

In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brightened all over,—

Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon

When it breaks into dimples and, laughs in the sun.

Such, such were the peerless enchantments that gave

NOURMAHAL the proud Lord of the East for her slave:

And tho’ bright was his Haram,— a living parterre

Of the flowersof this planet — tho’ treasures were there,

For which SOLIMAN'S self might have given all the store

That the navy from OPHIR e'er winged to his shore,

Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all

And the Light of his Haram was young NOURMAHAL!

But where is she now, this night of joy,

When bliss is every heart's employ?—

When all around her is so bright,

So like the visions of a trance,

That one might think, who came by chance

Into the vale this happy night,

He saw that City of Delight

In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers

Are made of gems and light and flowers!

Where is the loved Sultana? where,

When mirth brings out the young and fair,

Does she, the fairest, hide her brow

In melancholy stillness now?

Alas!— how light a cause may move

Dissension between hearts that love!

Hearts that the world in vain had tried

And sorrow but more closely tied;

That stood the storm when waves were rough

Yet in a sunny hour fall off,

Like ships that have gone down at sea

When heaven was all tranquillity!

A something light as air — a look,

A word unkind or wrongly taken —

Oh! love that tempests never shook,

A breath, a touch like this hath shaken.

And ruder words will soon rush in

To spread the breach that words begin;

And eyes forget the gentle ray

They wore in courtship's smiling day;

And voices lose the tone that shed

A tenderness round all they said;

Till fast declining one by one

The sweetnesses of love are gone,

And hearts so lately mingled seem

Like broken clouds,— or like the stream

That smiling left the mountain's brow

As tho’ its waters ne'er could sever,

Yet ere it reach the plain below,

Breaks into floods that part for ever.

Oh, you that have the charge of Love,

Keep him in rosy bondage bound,

As in the Fields of Bliss above

He sits with flowerets fettered round;—

Loose not a tie that round him clings.

Nor ever let him use his wings;

For even an hour, a minute's flight

Will rob the plumes of half their light.

Like that celestial bird whose nest

Is found beneath far Eastern skies,

Whose wings tho’ radiant when at rest

Lose all their glory when he flies!

Some difference of this dangerous kind,—

By which, tho’ light, the links that bind

The fondest hearts may soon be riven;

Some shadow in Love's summer heaven,

Which, tho’ a fleecy speck at first

May yet in awful thunder burst;—

Such cloud it is that now hangs over

The heart of the Imperial Lover,

And far hath banisht from his sight

His NOURMAHAL, his Haram's Light!

Hence is it on this happy night

When Pleasure thro’ the fields and groves

Has let loose all her world of loves

And every heart has found its own

He wanders joyless and alone

And weary as that bird of Thrace

Whose pinion knows no resting place.

In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes

This Eden of the Earth supplies

Come crowding round — the cheeks are pale,

The eyes are dim:— tho’ rich the spot

With every flower this earth has got

What is it to the nightingale

If there his darling rose is not?

In vain the Valley's smiling throng

Worship him as he moves along;

He heeds them not — one smile of hers

Is worth a world of worshippers.

They but the Star's adorers are,

She is the Heaven that lights the Star!

Hence is it too that NOURMAHAL,

Amid the luxuries of this hour,

Far from the joyous festival

Sits in her own sequestered bower,

With no one near to soothe or aid,

But that inspired and wondrous maid,

NAMOUNA, the Enchantress;— one

O'er whom his race the golden sun

For unremembered years has run,

Yet never saw her blooming brow

Younger or fairer than‘ tis now.

Nay, rather,— as the west wind's sigh

Freshens the flower it passes by,—

Time's wing but seemed in stealing o'er

To leave her lovelier than before.

Yet on her smiles a sadness hung,

And when as oft she spoke or sung

Of other worlds there came a light

From her dark eyes so strangely bright

That all believed nor man nor earth

Were conscious of NAMOUNA'S birth!

All spells and talismans she knew,

From the great Mantra,which around

The Air's sublimer Spirits drew,

To the gold gemsof AFRIC, bound

Upon the wandering Arab's arm

To keep him from the Siltim'sharm.

And she had pledged her powerful art,—

Pledged it with all the zeal and heart

Of one who knew tho’ high her sphere,

What‘ twas to lose a love so dear,—

To find some spell that should recall

Her Selim'ssmile to NOURMAHAL!

‘ Twas midnight — thro’ the lattice wreathed

With woodbine many a perfume breathed

From plants that wake when others sleep.

From timid jasmine buds that keep

Their odor to themselves all day

But when the sunlight dies away

Let the delicious secret out

To every breeze that roams about;—

When thus NAMOUNA:— “‘ Tis the hour

“That scatters spells on herb and flower,

“And garlands might be gathered now,

“That twined around the sleeper's brow

“Would make him dream of such delights,

“Such miracles and dazzling sights

“As Genii of the Sun behold

“At evening from their tents of gold

“Upon the horizon — where they play

“Till twilight comes and ray by ray

“Their sunny mansions melt away.

“Now too a chaplet might be wreathed

“Of buds o'er which the moon has breathed,

“Which worn by her whose love has strayed

“Might bring some Peri from the skies,

“Some sprite, whose very soul is made

“Of flowerets’ breaths and lovers’ sighs,

“And who might tell” —

“For me, for me,”

Cried NOURMAHAL impatiently,—

“Oh! twine that wreath for me to-night.”

Then rapidly with foot as light

As the young musk-roe's out she flew

To cull each shining leaf that grew

Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams

For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams.

Anemones and Seas of Gold,

And new-blown lilies of the river,

And those sweet flowerets that unfold

Their buds on CAMADEVA'S quiver;—

The tuberose, with her silvery light,

That in the Gardens of Malay

Is called the Mistress of the Night,

So like a bride, scented and bright,

She comes out when the sun's away:—

Amaranths such as crown the maids

That wander thro’ ZAMARA'S shades;—

And the white moon-flower as it shows,

On SERENDIB'S high crags to those

Who near the isle at evening sail,

Scenting her clove-trees in the gale;

In short all flowerets and all plants,

From the divine Amrita tree

That blesses heaven's habitants

With fruits of immortality,

Down to the basil tuftthat waves

Its fragrant blossom over graves,

And to the humble rosemary

Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed

To scent the desertand the dead:—

All in that garden bloom and all

Are gathered by young NOURMAHAL,

Who heaps her baskets with the flowers

And leaves till they can hold no more;

Then to NAMOUNA flies and showers

Upon her lap the shining store.

With what delight the Enchantress views

So many buds bathed with the dews

And beams of that blest hour!— her glance

Spoke something past all mortal pleasures,

As in a kind of holy trance

She hung above those fragrant treasures,

Bending to drink their balmy airs,

As if she mixt her soul with theirs.

And‘ twas indeed the perfume shed

From flowers and scented flame that fed

Her charmed life — for none had e'er

Beheld her taste of mortal fare,

Nor ever in aught earthly dip,

But the morn's dew, her roseate lip.

Filled with the cool, inspiring smell,

The Enchantress now begins her spell,

Thus singing as she winds and weaves

In mystic form the glittering leaves:—

I know where the winged visions dwell

That around the night-bed play;

I know each herb and floweret's bell,

Where they hide their wings by day.

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The image of love that nightly flies

To visit the bashful maid,

Steals from the jasmine flower that sighs

Its soul like her in the shade.

The dream of a future, happier hour

That alights on misery's brow,

Springs out of the silvery almond-flower

That blooms on a leafless bough.

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The visions that oft to worldly eyes

The glitter of mines unfold

Inhabit the mountain-herbthat dyes

The tooth of the fawn like gold.

The phantom shapes — oh touch not them —

That appal the murderer's sight,

Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem,

That shrieks when pluckt at night!

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The dream of the injured, patient mind

That smiles at the wrongs of men

Is found in the bruised and wounded rind

Of the cinnamon, sweetest then.

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

No sooner was the flowery crown

Placed on her head than sleep came down,

Gently as nights of summer fall,

Upon the lids of NOURMAHAL;—

And suddenly a tuneful breeze

As full of small, rich harmonies

As ever wind that o'er the tents

Of AZABblew was full of scents,

Steals on her ear and floats and swells

Like the first air of morning creeping

Into those wreathy, Red-Sea shells

Where Love himself of old lay sleeping;

And now a Spirit formed,‘ twould seem,

Of music and of light,— so fair,

So brilliantly his features beam,

And such a sound is in the air

Of sweetness when he waves his wings,—

Hovers around her and thus sings:

From CHINDARA'Swarbling fount I come,

Called by that moonlight garland's spell;

From CHINDARA'S fount, my fairy home,

Wherein music, morn and night, I dwell.

Where lutes in the air are heard about

And voices are singing the whole day long,

And every sigh the heart breathes out

Is turned, as it leaves the lips, to song!

Hither I come

From my fairy home,

And if there's a magic in Music's strain

I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath

Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

For mine is the lay that lightly floats

And mine are the murmuring, dying notes

That fall as soft as snow on the sea

And melt in the heart as instantly:—

And the passionate strain that, deeply going,

Refines the bosom it trembles thro’

As the musk-wind over the water blowing

Ruffles the wave but sweetens it too.

Mine is the charm whose mystic sway

The Spirits of past Delight obey;—

Let but the tuneful talisman sound,

And they come like Genii hovering round.

And mine is the gentle song that bears

From soul to soul the wishes of love,

As a bird that wafts thro’ genial airs

The cinnamon-seed from grove to grove.

‘ Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure

The past, the present and future of pleasure;

When Memory links the tone that is gone

With the blissful tone that's still in the ear;

And Hope from a heavenly note flies on

To a note more heavenly still that is near.

The warrior's heart when touched by me,

Can as downy soft and as yielding be

As his own white plume that high amid death

Thro’ the field has shone — yet moves with a breath!

And oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten.

When Music has reached her inward soul,

Like the silent stars that wink and listen

While Heaven's eternal melodies roll.

So hither I come

From my fairy home,

And if there's a magic in Music's strain,

I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath

Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

‘ Tis dawn — at least that earlier dawn

Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,

As if the morn had waked, and then

Shut close her lids of light again.

And NOURMAHAL is up and trying

The wonders of her lute whose strings —

Oh, bliss!— now murmur like the sighing

From that ambrosial Spirit's wings.

And then her voice —‘ tis more than human —

Never till now had it been given

To lips of any mortal woman

To utter notes so fresh from heaven;

Sweet as the breath of angel sighs

When angel sighs are most divine.—

“Oh! let it last till night,” she cries,

“And he is more than ever mine.”

And hourly she renews the lay,

So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness

Should ere the evening fade away,—

For things so heavenly have such fleetness!

But far from fading it but grows

Richer, diviner as it flows;

Till rapt she dwells on every string

And pours again each sound along,

Like echo, lost and languishing,

In love with her own wondrous song.

That evening, ( trusting that his soul

Might be from haunting love released

By mirth, by music and the bowl,)

The Imperial SELIM held a feast

In his magnificent Shalimar: —

In whose Saloons, when the first star

Of evening o'er the waters trembled,

The Valley's loveliest all assembled;

All the bright creatures that like dreams

Glide thro’ its foliage and drink beams

Of beauty from its founts and streams;

And all those wandering minstrel-maids,

Who leave — how can they leave?— the shades

Of that dear Valley and are found

Singing in gardens of the South

Those songs that ne'er so sweetly sound

As from a young Cashmerian's mouth.

There too the Haram's inmates smile;—

Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair,

And from the Garden of the NILE,

Delicate as the roses there;—

Daughters of Love from CYPRUS rocks,

With Paphian diamonds in their locks;—

Light PERI forms such as there are

On the gold Meads of CANDAHAR;

And they before whose sleepy eyes

In their own bright Kathaian bowers

Sparkle such rainbow butterflies

That they might fancy the rich flowers

That round them in the sun lay sighing

Had been by magic all set flying.

Every thing young, every thing fair

From East and West is blushing there,

Except — except — oh, NOURMAHAL!

Thou loveliest, dearest of them all,

The one whose smile shone out alone,

Amidst a world the only one;

Whose light among so many lights

Was like that star on starry nights,

The seaman singles from the sky,

To steer his bark for ever by!

Thou wert not there — so SELIM thought,

And every thing seemed drear without thee;

But, ah! thou wert, thou wert,— and brought

Thy charm of song all fresh about thee,

Mingling unnoticed with a band

Of lutanists from many a land,

And veiled by such a mask as shades

The features of young Arab maids,—

A mask that leaves but one eye free,

To do its best in witchery,—

She roved with beating heart around

And waited trembling for the minute

When she might try if still the sound

Of her loved lute had magic in it.

The board was spread with fruits and wine,

With grapes of gold, like those that shine

On CASBIN hills;— pomegranates full

Of melting sweetness, and the pears,

And sunniest applesthat CAUBUL

In all its thousand gardensbears;—

Plantains, the golden and the green,

MALAYA'S nectared mangusteen;

Prunes of BOCKHARA, and sweet nuts

From the far groves of SAMARCAND,

And BASRA dates, and apricots,

Seed of the Sun,from IRAN'S land;—

With rich conserve of Visna cherries,

Of orange flowers, and of those berries

That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles

Feed on in ERAC's rocky dells.

All these in richest vases smile,

In baskets of pure santal-wood,

And urns of porcelain from that isle

Sunk underneath the Indian flood,

Whence oft the lucky diver brings

Vases to grace the halls of kings.

Wines too of every clime and hue

Around their liquid lustre threw;

Amber Rosolli,— the bright dew

From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing;

And SHIRAZ wine that richly ran

As if that jewel large and rare,

The ruby for which KUBLAI-KHAN

Offered a city's wealth,was blushing

Melted within the goblets there!

And amply SELIM quaffs of each,

And seems resolved the flood shall reach

His inward heart,— shedding around

A genial deluge, as they run,

That soon shall leave no spot undrowned

For Love to rest his wings upon.

He little knew how well the boy

Can float upon a goblet's streams,

Lighting them with his smile of joy;—

As bards have seen him in their dreams,

Down the blue GANGES laughing glide

Upon a rosy lotus wreath,

Catching new lustre from the tide

That with his image shone beneath.

But what are cups without the aid

Of song to speed them as they flow?

And see — a lovely Georgian maid

With all the bloom, the freshened glow

Of her own country maidens’ looks,

When warm they rise from Teflis’ brooks;

And with an eye whose restless ray

Full, floating, dark — oh, he, who knows

His heart is weak, of Heaven should pray

To guard him from such eyes as those!—

With a voluptuous wildness flings

Her snowy hand across the strings

Of a syrindaand thus sings:—

Come hither, come hither — by night and by day,

We linger in pleasures that never are gone;

Like the waves of the summer as one dies away

Another as sweet and as shining comes on.

And the love that is o'er, in expiring gives birth

To a new one as warm, as unequalled in bliss;

And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this.

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh

As the flower of the Amra just oped by a bee;

And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,

Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea.

Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth

When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss,

And own if there be an Elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this.

Here sparkles the nectar that hallowed by love

Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere,

Who for wine of this earthleft the fountains above,

And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have here.

And, blest with the odor our goblet gives forth,

What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss?

For, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this.

The Georgian's song was scarcely mute,

When the same measure, sound for sound,

Was caught up by another lute

And so divinely breathed around

That all stood husht and wondering,

And turned and lookt into the air,

As if they thought to see the wing

Of ISRAFILthe Angel there;—

So powerfully on every soul

That new, enchanted measure stole.

While now a voice sweet as the note

Of the charmed lute was heard to float

Along its chords and so entwine

Its sounds with theirs that none knew whether

The voice or lute was most divine,

So wondrously they went together:—

There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,

When two that are linkt in one heavenly tie,

With heart never changing and brow never cold,

Love on thro’ all ills and love on till they die!

One hour of a passion so sacred is worth

Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss;

And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this.

‘ Twas not the air,‘ twas not the words,

But that deep magic in the chords

And in the lips that gave such power

As music knew not till that hour.

At once a hundred voices said,

“It is the maskt Arabian maid!”

While SELIM who had felt the strain

Deepest of any and had lain

Some minutes rapt as in a trance

After the fairy sounds were o'er.

Too inly touched for utterance,

Now motioned with his hand for more:—

Fly to the desert, fly with me,

Our Arab's tents are rude for thee;

But oh! the choice what heart can doubt,

Of tents with love or thrones without?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there

The acacia waves her yellow hair,

Lonely and sweet nor loved the less

For flowering in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope

The silvery-footed antelope

As gracefully and gayly springs

As o'er the marble courts of kings.

Then come — thy Arab maid will be

The loved and lone acacia-tree.

The antelope whose feet shall bless

With their light sound thy loneliness.

Oh! there are looks and tones that dart

An instant sunshine thro’ the heart,—

As if the soul that minute caught

Some treasure it thro’ life had sought;

As if the very lips and eyes,

Predestined to have all our sighs

And never be forgot again,

Sparkled and spoke before us then!

So came thy every glance and tone,

When first on me they breathed and shone,

New as if brought from other spheres

Yet welcome as if loved for years.

Then fly with me,— if thou hast known

No other flame nor falsely thrown

A gem away, that thou hadst sworn

Should ever in thy heart be worn.

Come if the love thou hast for me

Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,—

Fresh as the fountain under ground,

When first‘ tis by the lapwing found.

But if for me thou dost forsake

Some other maid and rudely break

Her worshipt image from its base,

To give to me the ruined place;—

Then fare thee well — I'd rather make

My bower upon some icy lake

When thawing suns begin to shine

Than trust to love so false as thine.

There was a pathos in this lay,

That, even without enchantment's art,

Would instantly have found its way

Deep in to SELIM'S burning heart;

But breathing as it did a tone

To earthly lutes and lips unknown;

With every chord fresh from the touch

Of Music's Spirit,—‘ twas too much!

Starting he dasht away the cup,—

Which all the time of this sweet air

His hand had held, untasted, up,

As if‘ twere fixt by magic there —

And naming her, so long unnamed,

So long unseen, wildly exclaimed,

“Oh NOURMAHAL! oh NOURMAHAL!

“Hadst thou but sung this witching strain,

“I could forget — forgive thee all

“And never leave those eyes again.”

The mask is off — the charm is wrought —

And SELIM to his heart has caught,

In blushes, more than ever bright,

His NOURMAHAL, his Haram's Light!

And well do vanisht frowns enhance

The charm of every brightened glance;

And dearer seems each dawning smile

For having lost its light awhile:

And happier now for all her sighs

As on his arm her head reposes

She whispers him, with laughing eyes,

“Remember, love, the Feast of Roses!”