Her grots, and sepulchres of kings,

The exiled Spirit sighing roves;

And now hangs listening to the doves

In warm Rosetta's vale, - now loves To watch the moonlight on the wings

Of the white pelicans that break

The azure calm of Moris' Lake.

'Twas a fair scene

a land more bright

Never did mortal

eye behold!

Who could have

thought, that saw this night Those valleys and

their fruits of

Basking in heaven's serenest light;
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending
Languidly their leaf-crown'd heads,
Like youthful maids, when sleep descending
Warns them to their silken beds;
Those virgin lilies, all the night

Bathing their beauties in the lake,
That they may rise more fresh and bright,
When their beloved sun's awake;
Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem
The relics of a splendid dream,

Amid whose fairy loneliness

Nought but the lapwing's cry is heard, Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting Fast from the moon, unsheathe its gleam) Some purple-wing'd sultana sitting

Upon a column, motionless

And glittering, like an idol bird!

Who could have thought that there, e'en there,

Amid those scenes so still and fair,

The Demon of the Plague hath cast
From his hot wing a deadlier blast,
More mortal far than ever came
From the red desert's sands of flame!
So quick, that every living thing
Of human shape, touch'd by his wing,
Like plants where the simoom hath past,
At once falls black and withering!
The sun went down on many a brow

Which, full of bloom and freshness then,

Is rankling in the pest-house now,

And ne'er will feel that sun again
And oh! to see the unburied heaps
On which the lonely midnight sleeps -
The very vultures turn away,
And sicken at so foul a prey!
Only the fierce hyena stalks
Throughout the city's desolate walks
At midnight, and his carnage plies -
Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets
The glaring of those large blue eyes
Amid the darkness of the streets!

"Poor race of Men!" said the pitying Spirit, "Dearly ye pay for your primal fall,—

Some flowerets of Eden ye still inherit,

But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!” She wept, the air grew pure and clear

Around her, as the bright drops ran;

For there's a magic in each tear,

Such kindly spirits weep for man!

Just then, beneath some orange-trees,

Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze
Were wantoning together, free,

Like age at play with infancy,

Beneath that fresh and springing bower,
Close by the lake, she heard the moan

Of one who, at this silent hour,

Had thither stolen to die alone: One who in life, where'er he moved,

Drew after him the hearts of many;

135

No voice, well known through many a day,
To speak the last, the parting word,
Which, when all other sounds decay,
Is still like distant music heard,
That tender farewell on the shore
Of this rude world, when all is o'er,
Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown dark.

Deserted youth! one thought alone

Shed joy around his soul in death,
That she whom he for years had known
And loved, and might have call'd his own,
Was safe from this foul midnight's breath;
Safe in her father's princely halls,

Where the cool airs from fountain falls,
Freshly perfumed by many a brand

Of the sweet wood from India's land,
Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd.

But see,

who yonder comes by stealth,

This melancholy bower to seek,

Like a young envoy, sent by Health,
With rosy gifts upon her cheek?

"Tis she, far off, through moonlight dim,

He knew his own betrothed bride, She, who would rather die with him Than live to gain the world beside! Her arms are round her lover now,

His livid cheeks to hers she presses,