Page:Rosalind and Helen (Shelley, Forman).djvu/48

46 And tears from her brown eyes did stain The altar: need but look upon That dying statue, fair and wan, If tears should cease, to weep again: And rare Arabian odours came, Though the myrtle copses steaming thence From the hissing frankincense, Whose smoke, wool-white as ocean foam, Hung in dense flocks beneath the dome, That ivory dome, whose azure night With golden stars, like heaven, was bright O'er the split cedar's pointed flame; And the lady's harp would kindle there The melody of an old air, Softer than sleep; the villagers Mixt their religion up with her's, And as they listened round, shed tears.

One eve he led me to this fane: Daylight on its last purple cloud Was lingering grey, and soon her strain The nightingale began; now loud, Climbing in circles the windless sky, Now dying music; suddenly 'Tis scattered in a thousand notes, And now to the hushed ear it floats Like field smells known in infancy, Then failing, soothes the air again. We sate within that temple lone, Pavilioned round with Parian stone: His mother's harp stood near, and oft I had awakened music soft Amid its wires: the nightingale Was pausing in her heaven-taught tale: