is notable for its expressions of rapture of the soul on entering heaven. The Fire-worshipers is a tale of love and tragedy based on the conquest of Persia by the Mohammedans.

Matthew Arnold has rendered into English an episode of the Sháhnáma, which forms an admired poem, entitled Sohrab and Rustum.

John G. Saxe is the author of a number of short poems based on legends of Persia and Arabia. These have generally a true Oriental sententiousness, and are happily expressed.

The German poet Goethe wrote, in the early years of this century (in 1814-1819), the West-Eastern Divan, a volume of twelve small books, or Namas, of short poems in the Persian style, which Oriental scholars greatly admire for its fidelity to the spirit of Eastern poetry. Heinrich Heine says of this singular poetic cycle: "Sometimes the reader may imagine himself indolently stretched upon a carpet of Persian softness, luxuriously smoking the yellow tobacco of Turkistan, through a long tube of jessamine and amber, while a black slave fans him with a fan of peacock's feathers, and a little boy presents to him a cup of genuine Mocha."

Leigh Hunt, English essayist and poet of the first half of the present century, was the author of a number of short poems of the Orient which have been much admired.

PARADISE AND THE PERI.

(From "Lalla Rookh.")

BY THOMAS MOORE.

ONE morn a Peri at the gate
Of Eden stood, disconsolate;
And as she listened to the Springs

Of Life within, like music flowing,
And caught the light upon her wings

Through the half-open portal glowing,
She wept to think her recreant race
Should e'er have lost that glorious place!

"How happy!" exclaim'd this child of air,
"Are the holy Spirits who wander there,

'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall;

Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, And the stars themselves have flowers for me,

One blossom of heaven outblooms them all! Though sunny the Lake of cool Cashmere, With its plane-tree isle reflected clear,

And sweetly the founts of that valley fall: Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, And the golden floods that thitherward stray, Yet-oh, 'tis only the blest can say

How the waters of heaven outshine them all! "Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far

As the universe spreads its flaming wall; Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years,

One minute of heaven is worth them all!"

The glorious Angel, who was keeping
The Gates of Light, beheld her weeping;
And as he nearer drew and listen'd
To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'd
Within his eyelids like the spray

From Eden's fountain, when it lies
On the blue flower, which-Bramins say-
Blooms nowhere but in Paradise!

"Nymph of a fair, but erring line!"
Gently he said, "one hope is thine:
"Tis written in the Book of Fate,
The Peri yet may be forgiven
Who brings to this Eternal Gate

The Gift that is most dear to Heaven!

Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin;

"Tis sweet to let the pardon'd in!"

Rapidly as comets run

To th' embraces of the Sun:

Fleeter than the starry brands,
Flung at night from angel hands
At those dark and daring sprites
Who would climb th' empyreal heights,
Down the blue vault the Peri flies,
And, lighted earthward by a glance
That just then broke from morning's eyes,
Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse.

But whither shall the Spirit go

To find this gift for Heaven?—" I know
The wealth," she cries, "of every urn,
In which unnumber'd rubies burn,
Beneath the pillars of Chilminar;

I know where the Isles of Perfume are;
Many a fathom down in the sea,
To the south of sun-bright Araby;
I know, too, where the Genii hid
The jewel'd cup of their king Jamshid,
With life's elixir sparkling high-
But gifts like these are not for the sky.
Where was there ever a gem that shone
Like the steps of Alla's wonderful Throne?
And the Drops of Life-oh! what would they be
In the boundless Deep of Eternity?"

While thus she mused, her pinions fann'd

The air of that sweet Indian land,
Whose air is balm; whose ocean spreads
O'er coral rocks and amber beds;
Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam
Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem;
Whose rivulets are like rich brides,
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides;
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice
Might be a Peri's Paradise!

But crimson now her rivers ran

With human blood; the smell of death Came reeking from their spicy bowers, And man, the sacrifice of man,

Mingled his taint with every breath
Upwafted from the innocent flowers!
Land of the Sun! what foot invades
Thy pagods and thy pillar'd shades;
Thy cavern shrines, and idol stones,
Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones?
"Tis he of Gazna-fierce in wrath
He comes, and India's diadems

Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path.
His bloodhounds he adorns with gems,
Torn from the violated necks

Of many a young and loved Sultana;
Maidens, within their pure Zenana,
Priests in the very fane he slaughters,
And chokes up with the glittering wrecks
Of golden shrines the sacred waters!

Downward the Peri turns her gaze,
And, through the war-field's bloody haze,
Beholds a youthful warrior stand,
Alone, beside his native river—
The red blade broken in his hand
And the last arrow in his quiver.
"Live," said the conqueror, " live to share
The trophies and the crowns I bear!"
Silent that youthful warrior stood-
Silent he pointed to the flood

All crimson with his country's blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For answer, to th' invader's heart.

False flew the shaft, though pointed well;
The tyrant lived, the hero fell!—

Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay,
And when the rush of war was past,
Swiftly descending on a ray

Of morning light, she caught the last-
Last glorious drop his heart had shed,
Before its free-born spirit fled!

"Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight,
"My welcome gift at the Gates of Light.
Though foul are the drops that oft distill
On the field of warfare, blood like this,
For liberty shed, so holy is,

It would not stain the purest rill

That sparkles among the bowers of bliss!
Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere,
A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,
"Tis the last libation Liberty draws

From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!"

"Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave

The gift into his radiant hand,
"Sweet is our welcome of the brave
Who die thus for their native land;
But see, alas! the crystal bar

Of Eden moves not-holier far

Than ev'n this drop the boon must be,

That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!"
Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,
Now among Afric's Lunar Mountains,
Far to the south, the Peri lighted;
And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains
Of that Egyptian tide, whose birth.
Is hidden from the sons of earth,
Deep in those solitary woods,
Where oft the Genii of the Floods
Dance round the cradle of their Nile,

And hail the newborn Giant's smile!