Come hither, come hither - by night and by day, And the Love that is o'er, in expiring, gives birth It is this, it is this. Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh As the flower of the Amra just op'd by a bee; s And precious their tears as that rain from the sky," Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. 4" The Indian Syrinda or guitar." — Symes. 66 5 Delightful are the flowers of the Amra trees on the mountain-tops, while the murmuring bees pursue their voluptuous toil." -Song of Jayadeva. 6❝ The Nisan or drops of spring rain, which they believe to produce pearls if they fall into shells.”. Richardson. 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, It is this, it is this. Here sparkles the nectar that, hallow'd 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, bless'd with the odour 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 hush'd and wondering, And turn'd and look'd into the air, 7 For an account of the share which wine had in the fall of the angels, v. Mariti. That new, enchanted measure stole. While now a voice, sweet as the note Of the charm'd lute, was heard to float Along its chords, and so entwine Its sound with theirs, that none knew whether The voice or lute was most divine, So wond'rously they went together: There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, When two, that are link'd 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; 8 The Angel of Music. v. note, p. 267. 'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words, As Music knew not till that hour. At once a hundred voices said, "It is the mask'd 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 touch'd for utterance, Now motion'd 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 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 lov'd and lone acacia-tree, The antelope, whose feet shall bless Oh! there are looks and tones that dart Some treasure it through life had sought; As if the very lips and eyes So came thy every glance and tone, Yet welcome as if lov'd for years! I I |