Behind their litters' roseate veils ;
And brides, as delicate and fair
As the white jasmine flowers they wear,
Hath Yemen in her blissful clime,

Who lull'd in cool kiosk or bower
Before their mirrors count the time,
And grow still lovelier every hour.
But never yet hath bride or maid
In Araby's gay harams smiled,
Whose boasted brightness would not fade
Before Al Hassan's blooming child.

Light as the angel shapes that bless
An infant's dream, yet not the less
Rich in all woman's loveliness;
With eyes so pure, that from their ray
Dark vice would turn abash'd away,
Blinded like serpents, when they gaze
Upon the emerald's virgin blaze!
Yet, fill'd with all youth's sweet desires,
Mingling the meek and vestal fires
Of other worlds with all the bliss,
The fond, weak tenderness of this!
A soul, too, more than half divine,

Where, through some shades of earthly feeling, Religion's soften'd glories shine,

Like light through summer foliage stealing,

Shedding a glow of such mild hue,
So warm, and yet so shadowy too,
As makes the very darkness there
More beautiful than light elsewhere!

Such is the maid who at this hour
Hath risen from her restless sleep,
And sits alone in that high bower,

Watching the still and shining deep.
Ah! 'twas not thus with tearful eyes
And beating heart - she used to gaze
On the magnificent earth and skies,

In her own land, in happier days. Why looks she now so anxious down Among those rocks, whose rugged frown Blackens the mirror of the deep? Whom waits she all this lonely night?

Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep, For man to scale that turret's height !

So deem'd at least her thoughtful sire,
When high, to catch the cool night air,
After the daybeam's withering fire,

He built her bower of freshness there,
And had it deck'd with costliest skill,
And fondly thought it safe as fair;
Think, reverend dreamer! think so still,

Nor wake to learn what love can dare, Love, all-defying Love, who sees. No charm in trophies won with ease; Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss Are pluck'd on danger's precipice ! Bolder than they who dare not dive

For pearls but when the sea's at rest,

Love, in the tempest most alive,

Hath ever held that pearl the best

He finds beneath the stormiest water!
Yes, Araby's unrivall'd daughter,

Though high that tower, that rock-way rude,
There's one who, but to kiss thy cheek,
Would climb th' untrodden solitude

Of Ararat's tremendous peak,

And think its steeps, though dark and
dread,

Heaven's pathways, if to thee they led!
E'en now thou seest the flashing spray,
That lights his oar's impatient way;
E'en now thou hear'st the sudden shock
Of his swift bark against the rock,
And stretchest down thy arms of snow,
As if to lift him from below!

Like her to whom, at dead of night,
The bridegroom, with his locks of light,
Came, in the flush of love and pride,
And scaled the terrace of his bride;
When, as she saw him rashly spring,
And midway up in danger cling,

She flung him down her long black hair,
Exclaiming, breathless, "There, love, there!"
And scarce did manlier nerve uphold

The hero Zal in that fond hour,

Than wings the youth who, fleet and bold,
Now climbs the rocks to Hinda's bower.

See light as up their granite steeps
The rock-goats of Arabia clamber,
Fearless from crag to crag he leaps,

And now is in the maiden's chamber.

She loves, but knows not whom she loves,
Nor what his race, nor whence he came;
Like one who meets, in Indian groves,
Some beauteous bird, without a name,
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze,
From isles in th' undiscover'd seas,
To show his plumage for a day
To wondering eyes, and wing away!
Will he thus fly, - her nameless lover?
Alla forbid! 'twas by a moon
As fair as this, while singing over
Some ditty to her soft Kanoon,
Alone at this same witching hour,

She first beheld his radiant eyes Gleam through the lattice of the bower,

Where nightly now they mix their sighs;

And thought some spirit of the air
(For what could waft a mortal there?)

Was pausing on his moonlight way
To listen to her lonely lay!

This fancy ne'er hath left her mind;

And though, when terror's swoon had past, She saw a youth, of mortal kind,

Before her in obeisance cast,

Yet often since, when he hath spoken

Strange, awful words, and gleams have broken From his dark eyes, too bright to bear,

Oh! she hath fear'd her soul was given

To some unhallow'd child of air,

Some erring spirit cast from heaven,

Like those angelic youths of old,
Who burn'd for maids of mortal mould,
Bewilder'd left the glorious skies,

And lost their heaven for woman's eyes!
Fond girl, nor fiend nor angel he,
Who woos thy young simplicity;
But one of earth's impassion'd sons,
As warm in love, as fierce in ire,
As the best heart whose current runs
Full of the Day-god's living fire!

But quench'd to-night that ardour seems, And pale his cheek, and sunk his brow; Never before, but in her dreams,

Had she beheld him pale as now;

And those were dreams of troubled sleep, From which 'twas joy to wake and weep, Visions, that will not be forgot,

But sadden every waking scene,

Like warning ghosts, that leave the spot All wither'd where they once have been!

"How sweetly," said the trembling maid, Of her own gentle voice afraid,

So long had they in silence stood,
Looking upon that tranquil flood,-

"How sweetly does the moonbeam smile To-night upon yon leafy isle!

Oft, in my fancy's wanderings,

I've wish'd that little isle had wings,
And we, within its fairy bowers,