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 her young bashfulness more beauteous now;
But a light golden chain-work round her hair,
Such as the maids of Yedz and Shiras 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-tamed 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 't was 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 distill'd from their flowers, that gave All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,

An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul, as 't was then to my eyes,

Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer!

"Poor maiden!" thought the youth, "if thou wert sen* With thy soft lute and beauty's blandishment, To wake unholy wishes in this heart,

Or tempt its troth, 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 wings 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 ev’ning 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 show's of jessamine

Which those without fling after them in play,

Two lightsome maidens spring, — lightsome as they Who live in th' air on odors, — and around

The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground, Chase one another, in a varying dance

Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance.
Too eloquently like love's warm pursuit:—
While she, who sung so gently to the lute
Her dream or home, steals timidly away,
Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray,
But takes with her from Azim's heart that sign
We sometimes give to forms that pass us by
In the world's crowd, too lovely to remain,
Creatures of light we never see again!

Around the white necks of the nymphs who danced
Hung carcanets of orient gems, that glanced
More brilliant than the sea-glass glitt❜ring o'er
The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore;
While from their long, dark tresses, in a fall
Of curls descending, bells as musical
As those that, on the golden-shafted trees
Of Eden, shake in the eternal breeze,

Rung round their steps, at ev'ry bound more sweet,
As 't were th' ecstatic language of their feet.

At length the chase was o'er, and they stood wreath'd
Within each other's arms; while soft there breathed
Through the cool casement, mingled with the sighs
Of moonlight flow'rs, music that seem'd to rise
From some still lake, so liquidly it rose;

And, as it swell'd again at each faint close,

The ear could track through all that maze of chords And young, sweet voices, these impassion'd words:

A Spirit there is, whose fragrant sigh

Is burning now through earth and air; Where cheeks are blushing, the Spirit is nigh, Where lips are meeting, the Spirit is there.

His breath is the soul of flow'rs like these,
And his floating eyes -oh! they resemble
Blue water-lilies, when the breeze

Is making the stream around them tremble.

Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling pow'r!
Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss!

Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,

And there never was moonlight so sweet as this,

By the fair and brave

Who blushing unite,

Like the sun and wave
When they meet at night;

By the tear that shows
When passion is nigh,
As the rain-drop flows

From the heat of the sky;

By the first love-beat
Of the youthful heart,

By the bliss to meet,
And the pain to part;

By all that thou hast
To mortals given,
Which-oh, could it last,

This earth were heaven'

We call thee hither, entrancing Power
Spirit of Love! Spirit of Bliss!

Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,

And there never was moonlight so sweet as thus

Impatient of a scene, whose lux'ries stole,

Spite of himself, too deep into his soul,

And where, midst all that the young heart loves most.
Flow'rs, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost,
The youth had started up, and turn'd away
From the light nymphs, and their luxurious lay,
To muse upon the pictures that hung round, -
Bright images, that spoke without a sound,
And views, like vistas into fairy ground.
But here again new spells came o'er his sense ;-
All that the pencil's mute omnipotence

Could call up into life, of soft and fair,

of fond and passionate, was glowing there; Nor yet too warm, but touch'd with that fine art Which paints of pleasure but the purer part;

Which knows ev'n Beauty when half-veil'd is best, Like her own radiant planet of the west,

Whose orb when half retired looks loveliest.

There hung the history of the Genii-King,

Traced through each gay, voluptuous wandering

With her from Saba's bowers, in whose bright cyes He read that to be blest is to be wise:

Here fond Zuleika woos with open arms

The Hebrew boy, who flies from her young charms,

Yet, flying, turns to gaze, and, half undɔne,
Wishes that Heav'n and she could both be won;
And here Mohammed, born for love and guile,
Forgets the Koran in his Mary's smile; -

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