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. 66 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 pastHer 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, Who sings at the last his own death lay, * Thus saying, from her lips she spread Unearthly breathings through the place, That like two lovely saints they seem'd, From their dim graves, in odour sleeping;- 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, High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate, For the bright Spirit at the gate And she already hears the trees Of Eden, with their crystal bells That from the throne of Alla swells; "In the East, they suppose the phoenix to have fifty orifices in his bill, which are continued to his tail; and that, after living one thousand years, he builds himself a funeral pile, sings a melodious air of different harmonies through his fifty organ-pipes, flaps his wings with a velocity which sets fire to the wood, and consumes himself."-Richardson. And she can see the starry bowls Upon whose banks admitted souls Their first sweet draught of glory take !* But ah! ev'n Peris' hopes are vain- Th' immortal barrier clos'd-"Not yet," He shut from her that glimpse of glory- Now, upon Syria's land of roses † Whose head in wintry grandeur towers, Is sleeping rosy at his feet. * "On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thousand goblets, made of stars, out of which souls predestined to enjoy felicity drink the crystal wave."-From Chateaubriand's Description of the Mahometan Paradise, in his Beauties of Christianity. + Richardson thinks that Syria had its name from Suri, a beautiful and delicate species of rose, for which that country has been always famous ;-hence, Suristan, the Land of Roses. To one, who look'd from upper air As they were all alive with light ;— With their rich, restless wings, that gleam Of the warm west,-as if inlaid Th' unclouded skies of Peristan! Banqueting through the flowery vales ;- But nought can charm the luckless Peri; * "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, |