And music too — dear music! that can touch
Beyond all else the soul that loves it much —
Now heard far off, so far as but to seem
Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream;
All was too much for him, too full of bliss,
The heart could nothing feel, that felt not this:
Soften'd he sunk upon a couch, and gave
His soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on wave
Succeeding in smooth seas, when storms are laid ; -
He thought of Zelica, his own dear maid,
And of the time when, full of blissful sighs,
They sat and look'd into each other's eyes,
Silent and happy - - as if God had given
Naught else worth looking at on this side heaven!

“O my loved mistress! whose enchantments still Are with me, round me, wander where I will — It is for thee, for thee alone I seek The paths of glory - to light up thy cheek With warm approval — in that gentle look, To read my praise, as in an angel's book, And think all toils rewarded, when from thee I gain a smile, worth immortality! How shall I bear the moment, when restored To that young heart where I alone am lord, Though of such bliss unworthy, - since the best Alone deserve to be the happiest! When from those lips, unbreathed upon for years, I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears, And find those tears warm as when last they started, Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted!

O my own life! -- why should a single day,
A moment keep me from those arms away?"

While thus he thinks, still nearer on the breeze Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies, Each note of which but adds new, downy links To the soft chain in which his spirit sinks. He turns him toward the sound, and, far away Through a long vista, sparkling with the play Of countless lamps, — like the rich track which day

, Leaves on the waters when he sinks from us; So long the path, its light so tremulous, He sees a group of female forms advance, Some chain'd together in the mazy dance By fetters, forged in the green sunny bowers, As they were captives to the King of Flowers ; And some disporting round, unlink'd and free, Who seem'd to mock their sisters' slavery, And round and round them still, in wheeling flight, Went, like gay moths about a lamp at night; While others waked, (as gracefully along Their feet kept time,) the very soul of song From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly thrill, Or their own youthful voices, heavenlier still! And now they come, now pass before his eye, Forms such as Nature moulds, when she would vie With Fancy's pencil, and give birth to things Lovely beyond its fairest picturings! Awhile they dance before him, then divide Breaking, like rosy clouds at even-tide Around the rich pavilion of the sun, —

Till silently dispersing, one by one,
Through many a path that from the chamber leads
To gardens, terraces, and moonlight meads,
Their distant laughter comes upon the wind,
And but one trembling nymph remains behind, -
Beckoning them back in vain, for they are gone,
And she is left in all that light alone,
No veil to curtain o'er her beauteous brow,
In its young bashfulness more beauteous now;
But a light, golden chain-work round her hair,
Such as the maids of Yezd and Shiraz wear,2
From which, on either side, gracefully hung
A golden amulet, in th’ Arab tongue,
Engraven o'er with some immortal line
From holy writ, or bard scarce less divine;
While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood,
Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood,
Which, once or twice, she touch'd with hurried strain,
Then took her trembling fingers off again.
But when at length a timid glance she stole

1 But a light, golden chain-work round her hair, etc. — “ One of the head-dresses of the Persian women is composed of a light golden chain-work, set with small pearls, with a thin gold plate pendant, about the bigness of a crown-piece, on which is impressed an Arabian prayer, and which hangs upon the cheek below the ear." -- Hanway's Travels.

2 Such as the maids of Yezd. — “Certainly the women of Yezd are the handsomest women in Persia. The proverb is, that to live happy, a man must have a wife of Yezd, eat the bread of Yezdecas, and drink the wine of Shiraz." — Tavernier.

At Azim, the sweet gravity of soul
She saw through all his features calm'd her fear,
And, like a half-tamed antelope, more near,
Though shrinking still, she came; – then sat her

down
Upon a musnud's 1 edge, and, bolder grown,
In the pathetic mode of Isfahan 2
Touch'd a preluding strain, and thus began :-

There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's 3 stream,

And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet

dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. That bower and its music I never forget,

But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, I think — is the nightingale singing there yet?

Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer!

No, the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gather’d, while freshly

they shone, And a dew was distillid from their flowers, that gave All the fragrance of summer, when summer was Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,

An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bende

meer!

“Poor maiden!” thought the youth,“ if thou wert

sent, With thy soft lute and beauty's blandishment To wake unholy wishes in this heart, Or tempt its truth, thou little know'st the art, For though thy lip should sweetly counsel wrong, Those vestal eyes would disavow its song. But thou hast breathed such purity, thy lay Returns so fondly to youth's virtuous day, And leads thy soul — if e'er it wander'd thence — So gently back to its first innocence, That I would sooner stop the unchain'd dove, When swift returning to its home of love, And round its snowy wing new fetters twine, Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine!”

Scarce had this feeling pass'd, when, sparkling

through The gently-open'd curtains of light blue That veil'd the breezy casement, countless eyes, Peeping like stars through the blue evening skies, Look'd laughing in, as if to mock the pair That sat so still and melancholy there. And now the curtains fly apart, and in. From the cool air, 'mid showers of jessamine