Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

The dream of the injured, patient mind,

That smiles at the wrongs of men,
Is found in the bruised 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
Placed 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* 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 ;-+

* The myrrh country.

+ “ This idea (of deities living in shells) was not unknown to the Greeks, who represent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in shells on the shores of the Red Sea.”WILFORD.

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 * 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.

* “ A fabulous fountain, where instruments are said to be constantly playing."-RICHARDSON.

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. *

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure The past, the present, and future of pleasure ; When Memory links the tone that is gone

With the blissful tone that's still in the ear;

* “ The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to different places, is a great disseminator of this valuable tree.”-See Brown's Illustr.

Tab, 19.

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, *

*“ They have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim, and the Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real day-break."-Waring,

As if the morn had waked, and then
Shut close her lids of light again.
And NourMAHAL is up, and trying

The wonders of her lute, whose strings-
Oh bliss !--now murmur like the sighing

From that ambrosial Spirit's wings! And then, her voice—’tis more than human

Never, till now, had it been given To lips of any mortal woman

To utter notes so fresh from Heaven ; Sweet as the breath of angel sighs,

When angel sighs are most divine.“ Oh ! let it last till night,” she cries,

" And he is more than ever mine.” And hourly she renews the lay,

So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness Should, ere the evening, fade away,–

For things so heavenly have such fleetness! But, far from fading, it but grows Richer, diviner as it flows; Till rapt she dwells on every string,

And pours again each sound along, Like Echo, lost and languishing

In love with her own wondrous song.

« ForrigeFortsæt »