There, drink my tears, while yet they fall, —
Would that my bosom's blood were balm,
And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all,
To give thy brow one minute's calm.

Nay, turn not from me that dear face-
Am I not thine-thy own lov'd bride-
The one, the chosen one, whose place
In life or death is by thy side!
Think'st thou that she, whose only light,
In this dim world, from thee hath shone,
Could bear the long, the cheerless night,
That must be hers, when thou art gone?
That I can live, and let thee go,
Who art my life itself? No, no-
When the stem dies, the leaf that grew
Out of its heart must perish too!
Then turn to me, my own love, turn,
Before, like thee, I fade and burn;
Cling to these yet cool lips, and share
The last pure life that lingers there!"
She fails-she sinks-as dies the lamp
In charnel airs or cavern-damp,
So quickly do his baleful sighs
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes!
One struggle-and his pain is past-
Her lover is no longer living!
One kiss the maiden gives-one last,
Long kiss, which she expires in giving!

"Sleep," said the Peri, as softly she stole

The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul,

As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast

Who sings at the last his own death lay, *
And in music and perfume dies away!"

Thus saying, from her lips she spread

Unearthly breathings through the place,
And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed
Such lustre o'er each paly face,
That like two lovely saints they seem'd,
Upon the eve of doomsday taken
From their dim graves, in odour sleeping ;-
While that benevolent Peri beam'd

Like their good angel, calmly keeping

Watch o'er them, till their souls would waken!

But morn is blushing in the sky;

Again the Peri soars above,
Bearing to heav'n that precious sigh

Of pure, self-sacrificing love.
High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate,
The Elysian palm she soon shall win,
For the bright Spirit at the gate
Smil'd as she gave that offering in;
And she already hears the trees
Of Eden, with their crystal bells
Ringing in that ambrosial breeze
That from the throne of Alla swells;

And she can see the starry bowls
That lie around that lucid lake,
Upon whose banks admitted souls

Their first sweet draught of glory take!*

But ah! ev'n Peris' hopes are vain

Again the Fates forbade, again
Th' immortal barrier clos'd-"Not yet,"
The Angel said, as, with regret,

He shut from her that glimpse of glory-
"True was the maiden, and her story,
Written in light o'er Alla's head,
By seraph eyes shall long be read.
But, Peri, see-the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not-holier far
Than ev'n this sigh the boon must be
That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee."

Now, upon Syria's land of roses †
Softly the light of eve reposes,
And, like a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted Lebanon,
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,

And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flowers,
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

To one, who look'd from upper air
O'er all th' enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow,
The life, the sparkling from below!

Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks
Of golden melons on their banks,
More golden where the sun-light falls ;-
Gay lizards glittering on the walls *
Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright,
As they were all alive with light;-
And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks
Of pigeons, settling on the rocks,

With their rich, restless wings, that gleam
Variously in the crimson beam
Of the warm west, -as if inlaid
With brilliants from the mine, or made

Of tearless rainbows, such as span
Th' unclouded skies of Peristan!
And then, the mingling sounds that come,
Of shepherds' ancient reed, † with hum
Of the wild bees of Palestine,

Banqueting through the flowery vales ;-
And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine,
And woods, so full of nightingales !

But nought can charm the luckless Peri;

Her soul is sad-her wings are weary

*

"The number of lizards I saw one day in the great court of the Temple of the Sun at Balbec, amounted to many thousands; the ground, the walls, and stones of the ruined buildings, were covered with them."-Bruce.

+ "The Syrinx, or Pan's pipe, is still a pastoral instrument in Syria."--Russel,