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lovers' quarrel which took place between her and the Emperor during a Feast of Roses at Cashmere; and would remind the Princess of that difference between Haroun-al-Raschid and his fair mistress Marida which was so happily made up by the soft strains of the musician Moussali. As the story was chiefly to be told in song, and Feramorz had unluckily forgotten his own lute in the valley, he borrowed the vina of Lalla Rookh's little Persian slave, and thus began:
THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM.
WHO has not heard of the vale of Cashmere,
As the love-lighted eyes that hung over their wave?
Oh, to see it at sunset,—when warm o'er the Lake Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws, Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes! When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown,
And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells,
Here the Magian his urn, full of perfume, is swinging,
And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells
Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.
Or to see it by moonlight,—when mellowly shines The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines; When the water-falls gleam, like a quick fall of stars, And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet
From the cool shining walks where the young people
Or at morn,—when the magic of daylight awakes
And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl'd, Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes, Sublime, from that Valley of Bliss to the world!
But never yet, by night or day,
With quicker spread each heart uncloses,
The Valley holds its Feast of Roses;
The Floweret of a hundred leaves,
'Twas when the hour of evening came Upon the Lake, serene and cool, When Day had hid his sultry flame
Behind the palms of Baramoule, When maids began to lift their heads, Refresh'd from their embroider'd beds Where they had slept the sun away, And waked to moonlight and to play. All were abroad the busiest hive
On Bela's hills is less alive,
And fields and pathways, far and near,
And all exclaim'd to all they met,
The moon had never shed a light
So clear as that which bless'd them there;
Nor they themselves look'd half so fair.
And what a wilderness of flowers!
With the rich buds that o'er it lie,—
Had fallen upon it from the sky!
From neighbouring Haram, wild and sweet;
From gardens, where the silken swing
The top leaves of the orange grove;
Then, the sounds from the Lake, the low whispering in boats,