said of Damascus, "It was too delicious; " 307 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,808 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,309 - 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 810 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: 811 WHO has not heard of the vale of CASHMERE, Oh! to see it at sunset, - when warm o'er the Lake And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. 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.312 Or to see it by moonlight, when mellowly shines. The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines; From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet. Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes 202 Hills, cupolas, fountains, call'd forth every one And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl'd, Shines in through the mountainous portal 314 that opes, Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world! But never yet, by night or day, With quicker spread each heart uncloses, 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 Flow'ret of a hundred leaves,3 Expanding while the dew-fall flows, And every leaf its balm receives. 316 '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,817 When maids began to lift their heads, Refresh'd from their embroider'd beds, Where they had slept the sun away, And wak'd to moonlight and to play. 315 On BELA'S 318 hills is less alive, And fields and pathways, far and near, So gay a Feast of Roses yet; — So clear as that which bless'd them there; The roses ne'er shone half so bright, Nor they themselves look'd half so fair. And what a wilderness of flowers! And then the sounds of joy, — the beat And answer'd by a ziraleet 319 From neighboring Haram, wild and sweet; - From gardens, where the silken swing 320 た The top leaves of the orange grove; Or, from those infant groups at play Among the tents 321 that line the way, Flinging, unaw'd by slave or mother, Handfuls of roses at each other. Then, the sounds from the Lake, the low whispering in boats, As they shoot through the moonlight; - the dipping of oars, And the wild, airy warbling that everywhere floats, Through the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores, Like those of KATHAY, utter'd music, and gave To be near the lov'd One, - what a rapture is his So felt the magnificent Son of ACBAR,328 |