Billeder på siden

Here maidens are sighing, and

fragrant their sigh As the flower of the Amra just oped

by a bee; And precious their tears as that rain

from the sky


Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth,

When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss; And own if there be an elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this !

Here sparkles the nectar that, hallow'd by love,
Could draw down those angels of old from their

sphere, Who for wine of this earth left the fountains above, And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have

here. And, bless'd with the odour our goblet gives forth,

What spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss ? For, oh! if there be an elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this !

The Georgian's song was scarcely mute,

When the same measure, sound for sound, Was caught up by another lute,

And so divinely breathed around, "That all stood hush'd and wondering,

And turn’d and look'd into the air,
As if they thought to see the wing

Of Israfil, the Angel, there; -
So powerfully on every soul
That new, enchanted measure stole.
While now a voice, sweet as the note
Of the charm'd lute, was heard to float
Along its chords, and so entwine

Its sound with theirs, that none knew whether

The voice or lute was most divine,

So wondrously they went together :

There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,

When two, that are link'd in one heavenly tie, With heart never changing and brow never cold,

Love on through all ills, and love on till they die ! One hour of a passion so sacred is worth

Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss; And, oh! if there be an elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this !

'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words,
But that deep magic in the chords
And in the lips, that gave such power
As music knew not till that nour.
At once a hundred voices said,
“It is the mask'd Arabian maid !
While Selim, who had felt the strain
Deepest of any, and had lain
Some minutes rapt, as in a trance,

After the fairy sounds were o'er,
Too inly touch'd for utterance,

Now motion'd with his hand for more:

Fly to the desert, fly with me!
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love, or thrones without ?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
Th' acacia waves her yellow hair,

Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gayly springs
As o'er the marble courts of kings.

Then come - thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.

Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;

As if the very lips and eyes
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then.

So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breathed and shone
New as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcomed as if loved for years !

Then fly with me, if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.

Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,
Fresh as the fountain underground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found.

But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place, -

Then fare thee well — I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine !

There was a pathos in this lay,

That, e'en without enchantment's art,
Would instantly have found its way

Deep into Selim's burning heart;
But breathing, as it did, a tone
To earthly lutes and lips unknown,

chord fresh from the touch
Of Music's spirit, — 'twas too much!
Starting, he dash'd away the cup, —
Which, all the time of this sweet air,
His hand had held, untasted, up,

As if ’twere fix'd by magic there,
And naming her, so long unnamed,
So long unseen, wildly exclaim’d,
** O Nourmahal ! O Nourmahal !

Hadst thou but sung this witching strain,

« ForrigeFortsæt »