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And dips, to bind his burning brow,
In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses.
Those gentle arms, that were to him
Of Eden's infant cherubim !
The blessed air, that's breathed by thee
Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me! There, — drink my tears, while yet they fall, —
Would that my bosom's blood were balm,
And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all
To give thy brow one minute's calm. Nay, turn not from me that dear face
Am I not thine, thy own loved bride, The one, the chosen one, whose place
In life or death is by thy side! Think'st thou that she, whose only light
In this dim world from thee hath shone, Could bear the long, the cheerless night
That must be hers when thou art gone?
Her lover is no longer living !
Long kiss, which she expires in giving !
Sleep,” said the Peri, as softly she stole The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, As true as e'er warm’d a woman's breast,
Sleep on, in visions of odour rest,
In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd
Thus saying, from her lips she spread
Unearthly breathings through the place,
Such lustre o'er each paly face,
Upon the eve of doomsday taken
Watch o'er them, till their souls would waken!
Again the Peri soars above,
Of pure self-sacrificing love.
The Elysian palm she soon shall win,
Smiled as she gave that offering in; And she already hears the trees
Of Eden, with their crystal bells Ringing in that ambrosial breeze
That from the Throne of Alla swells; And she can see the starry bowls
That lie around that lucid lake Upon whose banks admitted souls
Their first sweet draught of glory take ! But ah! even Peris' hopes are vain. Again the Fates forbade, again The immortal barrier closed : “ Not yet,” The Angel said as, with regret, He shut from her that glimpse of glory. “ True was the maiden, and her story, Written in light o'er Alla's head, By seraph eyes shall long be read; But, Peri, see, the crystal bar Of Eden moves not,
holier far Then even this sigh the boon must be That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee."
Now, upon Syria's land of roses
And whitens with eternal sleet,
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.
O'er all th' enchanted regions there,
as if inlaid
Banqueting through the flowery vales, And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine,
And woods, so full of nightingales !
But nought can charm the luckless Peri ;
Flinging their shadows from on high,