Engraven o'er with some immortal line Which, once or twice, she touch'd with hurried strain, 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 ISFAHAN 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 That bower and its music I never forget, song. But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, I think—is the nightingale singing there yet? Are the roses stiil bright by the calm BENDEMEER? * Musnuds are cusniorfed 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, "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. "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, Look'd laughing in, as if to mock the pair The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground, Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance, Around the white necks of the nymphs who danced Hung carcanets of orient gems, that glanc'd "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 Rung round their steps, at every bound more sweet, At length the chase was o'er, and they stood wreath'd 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 His breath is the soul of flowers like these, 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 When they meet at night; By the tear that shows From the heat of the sky; By the first love-beat Of the youthful heart, By the bliss to meet, By all that thou hast This earth were heaven! We call thee hither, entrancing Power! Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as this. |