Of worldly sloth;-to teach him, while he lives,
To know no bliss but that which virtue gives,
And when he dies to leave his lofty name
A light, a land-mark on the cliffs of fame?
It was not so, land of the generous thought
And daring deed! thy god-like sages taught;
It was not thus, in bowers of wanton ease,
Thy Freedom nurs'd her sacred energies;
Oh! not beneath th' enfeebling, withering glow

Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow,

With which she wreath'd her sword, when she would dare
Immortal deeds; but in the bracing air

Of toil-of temperance,-of that high, rare,
Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe

Life, health, and lustre into Freedom's wreath!
Who, that surveys this span of earth we press,
This speck of life in time's great wilderness,
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas,
The past, the future-two eternities!-
Would sully the bright spot or leave it bare,
When he might build him a proud temple there,
A name, that long shall hallow all its space,
And be each purer soul's high resting-place!
But no-it cannot be, that one, whom God
Has sent to break the wizard Falsehood's rod,
A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws
Its rights from Heaven, should thus profane his cause
With the world's vulgar pomps;-no, no-I see-
He thinks me weak-this glare of luxury

Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze

Of my young soul;-shine on, 'twill stand the blaze!"

So though the youth;-but, ev'n while he defied
This witching scene, he felt its witchery glide
Through every sense. The perfume, breathing round,
Like a pervading spirit ;-the still sound

Of falling waters, lulling as the song
Of Indian bees at sunset, when they throng
Around the fragrant Nilica, and deep

In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep!*
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
Nought else worth looking at on this side heaven!

66 O my lov'd 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,

* "My Pandits assure me that the plant before us (the Nilica) is their Sephalica, thus named because the bees are supposed to sleep on its blossoms."-Sir W. Jones.

And think all toils rewarded, when from thee
I gain a smile, worth immortality!

How shall I bear the moment, when restor❜d
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, unbreath'd 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 tow'rd 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, forg'd 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 wak'd, 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,-
Beck'ning 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,
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

At AZIM, the sweet gravity of soul

She saw through all his features calm'd her fear,

And, like a half-tam'd antelope, more near,

Though shrinking still, she came ;-then sat her down
Upon a musnud's edge, and, bolder grown,

In the pathetic mode of Isfahan+
Touch'd a preluding strain, and thus began :-

There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's ‡ 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.

* Musnuds are cushioned seats, usually reserved for persons of distinction.

+ The Persians, like the ancient Greeks, call their musical modes, or perdas, by the names of different countries or cities, as the mode of Isfahan, the mode of Irak, &c. A river which flows near the ruins of Chilminar.