Lalla Rookh/The Light of the Haram

The singular placidity with which FADLADEEN had listened during the latter part of this obnoxious story surprised the Princess and FERAMORZ exceedingly; and even inclined towards him the hearts of these unsuspicious young persons who little knew the source of a complacency so marvellous. The truth was he had been organizing for the last few days a most notable plan of persecution against the poet in consequence of some passages that had fallen from him on the second evening of recital,--which appeared to this worthy Chamberlain to contain language and principles for which nothing short of the summary criticism of the Chabuk would be advisable. It was his intention therefore immediately on their arrival at Cashmere to give information to the King of Bucharia of the very dangerous sentiments of his minstrel; and if unfortunately that monarch did not act with suitable vigor on the occasion, (that is, if he did not give the Chabuk to FERAMORZ and a place to FADLADEEN.) there would be an end, he feared, of all legitimate government in Bucharia. He could not help however auguring better both for himself and the cause of potentates in general; and it was the pleasure arising from these mingled anticipations that diffused such unusual satisfaction through his features and made his eyes shine out like poppies of the desert over the wide and lifeless wilderness of that countenance.

Having decided upon the Poet's chastisement in this manner he thought it but humanity to spare him the minor tortures of criticism. Accordingly when they assembled the following evening in the pavilion and LALLA ROOKH was expecting to see all the beauties of her bard melt away one by one in the acidity of criticism, like pearls in the cup of the Egyptian queen.-- he agreeably disappointed her by merely saying with an ironical smile that the merits of such a poem deserved to be tried at a much higher tribunal; and then suddenly passed off into a panegyric upon all Mussulman sovereigns, more particularly his august and Imperial master, Aurungzebe,--the wisest and best of the descendants of Timur,--who among other great things he had done for mankind had given to him, FADLADEEN, the very profitable posts of Betel-carrier and Taster of Sherbets to the Emperor, Chief Holder of the Girdle of Beautiful Forms, and Grand Nazir or Chamberlain of the Haram.

They were now not far from that Forbidden River beyond which no pure Hindoo can pass, and were reposing for a time in the rich valley of Hussun Abdaul, which had always been a favorite resting-place of the Emperors in their annual migrations to Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the Faith, Jehan-Guire, been known to wander with his beloved and beautiful Nourmahal, and here would LALLA ROOKH have been happy to remain for ever, giving up the throne of Bucharia and the world for FERAMORZ and love in this sweet, lonely valley. But the time was now fast approaching when she must see him no longer,--or, what was still worse, behold him with eyes whose every look belonged to another, and there was a melancholy preciousness in these last moments, which made her heart cling to them as it would to life. During the latter part of the journey, indeed, she had sunk into a deep sadness from which nothing but the presence of the young minstrel could awake her. Like those lamps in tombs which only light up when the air is admitted, it was only at his approach that her eyes became smiling and animated. But here in this dear valley every moment appeared an age of pleasure; she saw him all day and was therefore all day happy,--resembling, she often thought, that people of Zinge who attribute the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly over their heads.

The whole party indeed seemed in their liveliest mood during the few days they passed in this delightful solitude. The young attendants of the Princess who were here allowed a much freer range than they could safely be indulged with in a less sequestered place ran wild among the gardens and bounded through the meadows lightly as young roes over the aromatic plains of Tibet. While FADLADEEN, in addition to the spiritual comfort derived by him from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Saint from whom the valley is named, had also opportunities of indulging in a small way his taste for victims by putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate little lizards, which all pious Mussulmans make it a point to kill;--taking for granted that the manner in which the creature hangs its head is meant as a mimicry of the attitude in which the Faithful say their prayers.

About two miles from Hussun Abdaul were those Royal Gardens which had grown beautiful under the care of so many lovely eyes, and were beautiful still though those eyes could see them no longer. This place, with its flowers and its holy silence interrupted only by the dipping of the wings of birds in its marble basins filled with the pure water of those hills, was to LALLA ROOKH all that her heart could fancy of fragrance, coolness, and almost heavenly tranquillity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, "it was too delicious;" --and here in listening to the sweet voice of FERAMORZ or reading in his eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the most exquisite moments of her whole life were passed. One evening when they had been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal, the Light of the Haram, who had so often wandered among these flowers, and fed with her own hands in those marble basins the small shining fishes of which she was so fond,--the youth in order to delay the moment of separation proposed to recite a short story or rather rhapsody of which this adored Sultana was the heroine. It related, he said, to the reconcilement of a sort of lovers' quarrel which took place between her and the Emperor during a Feast of Roses at Cashmere; and would remind the Princess of that difference between Haroun-al-Raschid and his fair mistress Marida, which was so happily made up by the soft strains of the musician Moussali. As the story was chiefly to be told in song and FERAMORZ had unluckily forgotten his own lute in the valley, he borrowed the vina of LALLA ROOKH'S little Persian slave, and thus began:--

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 portal that 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'S hills 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 tents that 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 flowers of 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 gems of AFRIC, bound Upon the wandering Arab's arm To keep him from the Siltim's harm. 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's smile 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 tuft that waves Its fragrant blossom over graves, And to the humble rosemary Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed To scent the desert and 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-herb that 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 AZAB blew 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'S warbling 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 apples that CAUBUL In all its thousand gardens bears;-- 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 syrinda and 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 earth left 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 ISRAFIL the 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!"