Fly to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love, or thrones without ?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
Th’ acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs
As o'er the marble courts of Kings.

Then come-thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.

Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,-
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought ;
As if the very lips and eyes
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then!

So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breathed and shone;
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if loved for years !

Then fly with me,-if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.

Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, -
Fresh as the fountain under ground
When first 'tis by the lapwing found. *

But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place ;-

Then, fare thee well—I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake
When thawing șuns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine!

There was a pathos in this lay,

That, even without enchantment's art,
Would instantly have found its way

Deep into SELIM’s burning heart;
But breathing, as it did, a tone
To earthly lutes and lips unknown,
With every chord fresh from the touch
Of Music's Spirit,-'twas too much!
Starting, he dash'd away the cup,-

Which, all the time of this sweet air,
His hand had held, untasted, up,

As if 'twere fix'd by magic there,-
And naming her, so long unnamed,
So long unseen, wildly exclaim’d,
“ Oh, Nourmahal! oh, NOURMAHAL !

“ Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, “ I could forget-forgive thee all

“ And never leave those eyes again.”

The mask is off-the charm is wrought-
And Selim to his heart has caught,
In blushes, more than ever bright,
His NOURMAWAL, his Haram's Light !
And well do vanish'd frowns enhance
The charm of every brighten’d glance;
And dearer seems each dawning smile
For having lost its light awhile ;
And, happier now for all her sighs,

As on his arm her head reposes,
She whispers him, with laughing eyes,

“Remember, love, the Feast of Roses ! ” FADLADEEN, at the conclusion of this light rhapsody, took occasion to sum up his opinion of the young Cashmerian's poetry,-of which, he trusted, they had that evening heard the last. Having recapitulated the epithets, “ frivolous”—“inharmonious”—“nonsensical,” he proceeded to say that, viewing it in the most favourable light, it resembled one of those Maldivian boats, to which the Princess had alluded in the relation of her dream,*-a slight, gilded thing, sent adrift without rudder or ballast, and with nothing but vapid sweets and faded flowers on board. The profusion, indeed, of flowers and birds, which this poet had ready on all occasions-not to mention dews, gems, etc. was a most oppressive kind of opulence to his hearers ; and had the unlucky effect of giving to his style all the glitter of the flower-garden without its method, and all the flutter of the aviary without its song. In ad

* See page 225.