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The hope, in dreams, of a 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,

5

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 torn at night!

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

4" The almond-tree, with white flowers, blossoms on the bare branches."- Hasselquist.

5 An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to communicate a yellow golden hue to the teeth of the goats and other animals that graze upon it.

The dream of the injur'd, patient mind,
That smiles at the wrongs of men,

Is found in the bruis'd 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

Plac'd 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

6

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;'

6 The myrrh country.

7 "This idea (of deities living in shells) was not unknown to the Greeks, who represent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in shells on the shores of the Red Sea."-Wilford.

And now a Spirit form'd, '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,
Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell;
From CHINDARA's fount, my fairy home,
Where in 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 turn'd, 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.

8« A fabulous fountain, where instruments are said to be con

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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 through,
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 through 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;

9 "The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to different places, is a great disseminator of this valuable tree.”. -v. Brown's Illustr. Tab. 19.

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 touch'd by me,
Can as downy soft and as yielding be

As his own white plume, that high amid death
Through the field has shone

yet moves with a breath.

And, oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten,

When Music has reach'd her inward soul,

Like the silent stars, that wink and listen

While Heav'n'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,'

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They have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim, and the Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real day-break."— Waring.

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