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,
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, blessed 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 hushed and wondering,
And turned and looked 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 linked in one heavenly tie,
With heart never changing, and brow never cold,
Love on through 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 masked 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 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 gaily 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 through the heart,—
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through 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 worshipped 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 into 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 dashed away the cup,—-
Which, all the time of this sweet air,
His hand had held, untasted, up,
As if 'twere fixed 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 vanished 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."
Araby's Daughter.
FAREWELL! Farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea);
No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water,
More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.
O! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,
How light was thy heart till Love's witchery came, Like the wind of the South o'er a summer-lute blowing, And hushed all its music, and withered its frame !
But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands,
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom
|