Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1834.pdf/29

Rh

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And near the watermelon stands, Fresh from the Jumna’s shining sands; And golden grapes, whose bloom and hue Wear morning light and morning dew, Or purple with the deepest dye That flushes evening’s farewell sky. And in the slender vases glow— Vases that seem like sculptur'd snow— The rich sherbets are sparkling bright With ruby and with amber light. A fragrant mat the ground o’erspread, With an old tamarind overhead, With drooping bough of darkest green, Forms for their feast a pleasant screen.

’Tis night, but such delicious time Would seem like day in northern clime. A pure and holy element, Where light and shade, together blent, Are like the mind’s high atmosphere, When hope is calm, and heaven is near. The moon is young—her crescent brow Wears its ethereal beauty now, Unconscious of the crime and care, Which even her brief reign must know, Till she will pine to be so fair, With such a weary world below. A tremulous and silvery beam Melts over palace, garden, stream; Each flower beneath that tranquil ray, Wears other beauty than by day, All pale as if with love, and lose Their rich variety of hues— But ah, that languid loveliness Hath magic, to the noon unknown, A deep and pensive tenderness, The heart at once feels is its own— How fragrant to these dewy hours, The white magnolia lifts its urn The very Araby of flowers, Wherein all precious odours burn.