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Engraven o'er with some immortal line
From Holy Writ, or bard scarce less divine;
While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood,
Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood,
Which, once or twice, she touch'd with hurried strain,
Then took her trembling fingers off again.
But when at length a timid glance she stole
At Azim, the sweet gravity of soul
She saw through all his features calm'd her fear,
And, like a half-tamed antelope, more near,
Though shrinking still, she came;- then sat her down
Upon a musnud's* edge, and, bolder grown,
In the pathetic mode of ISFAHANT
Touch'd a preluding strain, and thus began:

There's a bower of roses by BENDEMEER’s| stream,

And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; In the time of my childhood 't was 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 nightingaie singing there yet?

Are the roses stil bright by the calm BENDEMEER?

* Musnuds are cusnforted seats, usually reserved for persons of distinction.

† The Persians, like the ancient Greeks, call their musical modes or Perdas by the names of different countries or cities, as the mode of Isfahan, the mode of Irak, &c.

| A river which flows near the ruins of Chilminar.

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 't was 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 eyes would disavow its song. “ But thou hast breathed such purity, thy lay “ Returns so fondly to youth's virtuous day, “ And leads thy soul —if e'er it wandered thence – “ So gently back to its first innocence, “ That I would sooner stop the unchained dove, “When swift returning to its home of love, “ And round its snowy wing new fetters twine, “ Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine!”

Scarce had this feeling pass’d, when, sparkling through The gently opened 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, ʼmid showers of jessamine
Which those without fling 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 danced 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;* While from their long, dark tresses, in a fall Of curls descending, bells as musical

*" To the north of us (on the coast of the Caspian, near Badku,) was a mountain, which sparkled like diamonds, arising from the sea-glass and crystals with which it abounds.” – Journey of the Russian Ambassador to Persia, 1746.

As those that, on the golden-shafted trees
Of EDEN, shake in the eternal breeze, *
Rung round their steps, at every bound more sweet,
As 'twere the extatic 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 resemblet
Blue water-liliest, when the breeze

Is making the stream around them tremble.

*" To which will be added the sound of the bells, hanging on the trees, which will be put in motion by the wind proceeding from the throne of God, as often as the blessed wish for music." - SALE.

+ “Whose wanton eyes resemble blue water-lilies, agitated by the breeze."Jayadeva. The blue lotos, which grows in Cashmere and in Persia.


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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