And beams of that bless'd hour!-her glance

Spoke something, past all mortal pleasures, As, in a kind of holy trance,

She hung above those fragrant treasures, Bending to drink their balmy airs,

As if she mix'd her soul with theirs.

And 'twas, indeed, the perfume shed
From flow'rs and scented flame, that fed
Her charmed life-for none had e'er
Beheld her taste of mortal fare,
Nor ever in aught earthly dip,

But the morn's dew, her roseate lip.
Fill'd with the cool, inspiring smell,
The' Enchantress now begins her spell,
Thus singing as she winds and weaves
In mystic form the glittering leaves :-

I know where the wing'd visions dwell
That around the night-bed play ;
I know each herb and flow'ret's bell,
Where they hide their wings by day.
Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The image of love, that nightly flies

To visit the bashful maid,

Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs

Its soul, like her, in the shade.
The dream of a future, happier hour,

That alights on misery's brow,

Springs out of the silvery almond-flower,

That blooms on a leafless bough.342
Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The visions, that oft to worldly eyes

The glitter of mines unfold,
Inhabit the mountain-herb,343 that dyes
The tooth of the fawn like gold.

The phantom shapes-oh touch not them!-
That appal the murderer's sight,
Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem,
That shrieks, when pluck'd at night!
Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The dream of the injur'd, patient mind,
That smiles at the wrongs of men,

Is found in the bruis'd and wounded rind
Of the cinnamon, sweetest then.
Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

No sooner was the flowery crown

Plac'd on her head, than sleep came down,
Gently as nights of summer fall,
Upon the lids of NOURMAHAL ;—
And, suddenly, a tuneful breeze,
As full of small, rich harmonies

As ever wind, that o'er the tents
Of AZAB 344 blew, was full of scents,

Steals on her ear, and floats and swells,

Like the first air of morning creeping

Into those wreathy, Red-Sea shells,

Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping; 345

And now a Spirit form'd, 'twould seem,

Of music and of light, so fair,

So brilliantly his features beam,

And such a sound is in the air

Of sweetness when he waves his wings,-
Hovers around her, and thus sings :-

From CHINDARA'S 346 warbling fount I come, Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell; From CHINDARA'S fount, my fairy home,

Where in music, morn and night, I dwell : Where lutes in the air are heard about,

And voices are singing the whole day long, And every sigh the heart breathes out

Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song!
Hither I come

From my fairy home;

And if there's a magic in Music's strain,
I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath,

Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

For mine is the lay that lightly floats,
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea,
And melt in the heart as instantly :—
And the passionate strain that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through,
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too.

Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway
The Spirits of past Delight obey;

Let but the tuneful talisman sound,
And they come, like Genii, hovering round.
And mine is the gentle song that bears

From soul to soul, the wishes of love,

As a bird, that wafts through genial airs
The cinnamon-seed from grove to grove. 317

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure

The past, the present, and future of pleasure; 348
When Memory links the tone that is gone

With the blissful tone that's still in the ear;
And Hope from a heavenly note flies on

To a note more heavenly still that is near.

The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me,

Can as downy soft and as yielding be
As his own white plume, that high amid death.
Through the field has shone-yet moves with a breath!
And oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten,

When Music has reach'd her inward soul,

Like the silent stars, that wink and listen
While Heaven's eternal melodies roll.
So, hither I come

From my fairy home;

And if there's a magic in Music's strain,
I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath,

Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

"Tis dawn-at least that earlier dawn, Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,349