Far from the joyous festival,

Sits in her own sequester'd bower, With no one near, to soothe or aid, But that inspired and wondrous maid, Namouna, the enchantress, one, O'er whom his race the golden sun For unremember'd years has run, Yet never saw her blooming brow Younger or fairer than 'tis now. Nay, rather, as the west-wind's sigh Freshens the flower it passes by, Time's wing but seem'd, in stealing o'er, To leave her lovelier than before. Yet on her smiles a sadness hung, And when, as oft, she spoke or sung Of other worlds, there came a light From her dark eyes so strangely bright, That all believed nor man nor earth Were conscious of Namouna's birth!

All spells and talismans she knew,
From the great Mantra, which around

The Air's sublimer spirits drew,

To the gold gems of Afric, bound Upon the wandering Arab's arm, To keep him from the Siltim's harm. And she had pledged her powerful art, Pledged it with all the zeal and heart Of one who knew, though high her sphere,

What 'twas to lose a love so dear,

Would make him dream of such delights,
Such miracles and dazzling sights,

As Genii of the Sun behold,

At evening, from their tents of gold, Upon th' horizon, where they play

Till twilight comes, and, ray by ray,
Their sunny mansions melt

away!

Now, too, a chaplet might be

wreathed

Of buds o'er which the moon

has breathed,

Which worn by her, whose

love has stray'd,

Might bring some Peri from the skies,

Some sprite, whose very soul is made
Of flowerets' breaths and lovers' sighs,
And who might tell — "

"For me, for me,"

Cried Nourmahal impatiently,

"Oh! twine that wreath for me to-night!" Then rapidly, with foot as light

As the young musk-roe's, out she flew
To cull each shining leaf that grew
Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams
For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams.
Anemones and Seas of Gold,

And new-blown lilies of the river,
And those sweet flowerets, that unfold
Their buds on Camadeva's quiver;
The tuberose, with her silvery light,
That in the gardens of Malay
Is call'd the mistress of the Night,
So like a bride, scented and bright,

She comes out when the sun's away;
Amaranths, such as crown the maids
That wander through Zamara's shades;
And the white moon-flower, as it shows
On Serendib's high crags to those
Who near the isle at evening sail,
Scenting her clove-trees in the gale;
In short, all flowerets and all plants,
From the divine Amrita tree,
That blesses heaven's inhabitants
With fruits of immortality,

Down to the bazil tuft, that waves

Its fragrant blossom over graves,

And to the humble rosemary,
Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed
To scent the desert and the dead,
All in that garden bloom, and all
Are gather'd by young Nourmahal,
Who heaps her baskets with the flowers
And leaves, till they can hold no more;
Then to Namouna flies, and showers
Upon her lap the shining store.

With what delight th' Enchantress views
So many buds, bathed with the dews
And beams of that bless'd hour!

her glance

Spoke something, past all mortal pleasures, As, in a kind of holy trance,

She hung above those fragrant treasures, Bending to drink their balmy airs,

As if she mix'd her soul with theirs.
And 'twas, indeed, the perfume shed
From flowers and scented flame that fed
Her charmed life, for none had e'er
Beheld her taste of mortal fare,
Nor ever in aught earthly dip,
But the morn's dew, her roseate lip.
Fill'd with the cool, inspiring smell,
Th' Enchantress now begins her spell,
Thus singing, as she winds and weaves
In mystic form the glittering leaves:

I know where the winged visions dwell
That around the night-bed play;