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There's a bower of roses by BENDEEMER'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.

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 'twas then to my eyes,

Is that bower on the banks of the calm BENDEMEER.

“ Poor maiden !” thought the youth, “if thou wert sent, “With thy soft lute and beauty's blandishment, “To wake unholy wishes in this heart, “ Or tempt its truth, thou little know'st the art. “ For though thy lip should sweetly counsel wrong, Those vestal

would disavow its song. “ But thou hast breath'd 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,

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“ And round its snowy wing new fetters twine, “ Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine ! ”

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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 evening 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 showers of jessamine Which those without Aling after them in play, Two lightsome maidens spring, -lightsome as they

Who live in the air on odours,--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 of home, steals timidly away,
Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray,-
But takes with her from Azim's heart that sigh
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 danc'd Hung carcanets of orient gems, that glanc'd More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering o'er The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore ; 84 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, 85 Rung round their steps, at every bound more sweet, As 'twere the 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 breath'd Through the cool casement, mingled with the sighs Of moonlight flowers, 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 flowers like these,

And his floating eyes--oh! they resemble 86 Blue water-lilies, 87 when the breeze

Is making the stream around them tremble.

Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power !

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 this.

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Impatient of a scene whose luxuries stole,
Spite of himself, too deep into his soul,
And where, midst all that the young heart loves most-
Flowers, 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, 88.
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 even Beauty when half-veil'd is best,
Like her own radiant planet of the west,
Whose orb when half retir'd looks loveliest. 89
There hung the history of the Genii-King,
Traced through each gay, voluptuous wandering
With her from Saba's bowers, in whose bright eyes
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 undone,
Wishes that Heaven and she could both be won ;
And here MOHAMMED, born for love and guile,

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