And dips, to bind his burning brow,

In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses.

Ah! once how little did he think

An hour would come when he should shrink With horror from that dear embrace,

Those gentle arms, that were to him Holy as is the cradling place

Of Eden's infant cherubim !

And now he yields

now turns away,

Shuddering as if the venom lay

All in those proffer'd lips alone, -
Those lips that, then so fearless grown,

Never until that instant came

Near his unask'd or without shame.

"Oh! let me only breathe the air,

The blessed air, that's breathed by thee And, whether on its wings it bear

Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me!

There, drink my tears, while yet they fall,

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? That I can live, and let thee go, Who art my life itself? No, no When the stem dies, the leaf that grew Out of its heart must perish too! Then turn to me, my own love, turn, Before like thee I fade and burn; Cling to these yet cool lips, and share The last pure life that lingers there!" She fails- - she sinks- as dies the lamp

In charnel airs or cavern damp,

So quickly do his baleful sighs

Quench all the sweet light of her eyes !

One struggle

and his pain is past,

Her lover is no longer living!

"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,

66

Sleep on, in visions of odour rest,

In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd
Th' enchanted pile of that holy bird
Who sings at the last his own death-lay,
And in music and perfume dies away!"

Thus saying, from her lips she spread
Unearthly breathings through the place,
And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed
Such lustre o'er each paly face,

That like two lovely saints they seem'd
Upon the eve of doomsday taken
From their dim graves, in odour sleeping;

While that benevolent Peri beam'd

Like their good angel, calmly keeping

Watch o'er them, till their souls would waken!

But morn is blushing in the sky;

Again the Peri soars above,

Bearing to heaven that precious sigh

Of pure self-sacrificing love.

High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate,

The Elysian palm she soon shall win,

For the bright Spirit at the gate

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
Softly the light of eve reposes,
And, like a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted Lebanon ;
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,
And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flowers,
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.
To one who look'd from upper air

O'er all th' enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow,
The life, the sparkling from below!
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks
Of golden melons on their banks,
More golden where the sunlight falls;
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls
Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright,
As they were all alive with light;

And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks
Of pigeons, settling on the rocks,
With their rich restless wings, that gleam
Variously in the crimson beam

With brilliants from the mine, or made
Of tearless rainbows, such as span
Th' unclouded skies of Peristan !
And then the mingling sounds that come,
Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum
Of the wild bees of Palestine

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;

Her soul is sad, her wings are weary:
Joyless she sees the sun look down
On that great Temple, once his own,
Whose lonely columns stand sublime,

Flinging their shadows from on high,