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; † And precious their tears as that rain from the sky, ‡ Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. *"Around the exterior of the Dewan Khafs (a building of Shah Allum's) in the cornice are the following lines in letters of gold upon a ground of white marble:-'If there be a paradise upon earth, it is this, it is this."- Franklin. "Delightful are the flowers of the Amra trees on the mountaintops, while the murmuring bees pursue their voluptuous toil.". Song of Jayadeva. "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, The Georgian's song was scarcely mute, When the same measure, sound for sound, Was caught up by another lute, And so divinely breath'd around, *For an account of the share which wine had in the fall of the angels, see Mariti. That all stood hush'd and wondering, And turn'd and look'd 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 charm'd 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 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! *The Angel of Music. See note, p. 308. 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 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 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 Oh! there are looks and tones that dart Some treasure it through life had sought; |