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I know each herb and floweret's bell,
Where they hide their wings by day.

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The image of love that nightly flies

To visit the bashful maid,
Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs

Its soul, like her, in the shade.
The hope, in dreams, of a happier hour

That alights on misery's brow,
Springs out of the silvery almond-flower
That blooms on a leafless bough.

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid, Tomorrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The visions that oft to worldly eyes

The glitter of mines unfold, Inhabit the mountain-herb, that dyes

The tooth of the fawn like gold. The phantom shapes - oh, touch not them

That appall the murderer's sight, Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem, That shrieks, when torn at night !

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid, Tomorrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The dream of the injured patient mind,

That smiles at the wrongs of men,

Is found in the bruised and wounded rind
Of the cinnamon, sweetest then !

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers

will fade.

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Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping; And now a spirit form’d, 'twould seem,

Of music and of light, so fair,
So brilliantly his features beam,

And such a sound is in the air
Of sweetness, when he waves his wings,
Hovers around her, and thus sings :

From Chindara's warbling fount I come,

Callid by that moonlight garland's spell ; From Chindara's fount, my fairy home,

Where in music, morn and night, I dwell. Where lutes in the air are heard about,

And voices are singing the whole day long, And every sigh the heart breathes out Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song!

Hither I come

From my fairy home;
And if there's a magic in music strain,

I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath,
Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again !

For mine is the lay that lightly floats,
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea,
And melt in the heart as instantly !

And the passionate strain that, deeply going,

Refines the bosom it trembles through, As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,

Ruffles the waves, but sweetens it too !

Mine is the charm whose mystic sway
The Spirits of past Delight obey;
Let but the tuneful talisman sound,
And they come, like Genii, hovering round.

And mine is the gentle song that bears

From soul to soul the wishes of love, As a bird that wafts through genial airs

The cinnamon seed from grove to grove.

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure
The past, the present, and future of pleasure;
When memory links the tone that is gone

With the blissful tone that's still in the ear,
And hope from a heavenly note flies on

To a note more heavenly still that is near ! The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me, Can as downy soft and as yielding be As his own white plume, that high amid death Through the field has shone, yet moves with a

breath.

And, oh, how the eyes of beauty glisten,

When music has reach'd her inmost soul, Like the silent stars, that wink and listen While heaven's eternal melodies roll !

So hither I come

From my fairy home,
And if there's a magic in music strain,

I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath,
Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again,

'Tis dawn, - at least that earlier dawn
Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,
As if the morn had waked, and then
Shut close her lids of light again.

And Nourmahal is up, and trying

The wonders of her lute, whose strings – Oh, bliss ! - now murmur like the sighing

From that ambrosial spirit's wings !

And then, her voice, 'tis more than human,

Never, till now, had it been given To lips of any mortal woman

To utter notes so fresh from heaven;

Sweet as the breath of angel sighs,

When angel sighs are most divine, * Oh ! let it last till night," she cries,

" And he is more than ever mine." And hourly she renews the lay,

So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness Should, ere the evening, fade away, —

For things so heavenly have such fleetness 1 But, far from fading, it but grows Richer, diviner, as it flows; Till rapt she dwells on every string,

And pours again each sound along, Like Echo, lost and languishing

In love with her own wondrous song.

That evening (trusting that his soul

Might be from haunting love released

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