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 ? The Georgian's song was scarcely mute, Was caught up by another lute, And so divinely breathed around, That all stood hush'd and wondering, Of Israfil, the Angel, there; So powerfully on every soul That new, enchanted measure stole. Of the charm'd lute, was heard to float 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, Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss; 'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words, 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 Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less 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, 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 So came thy every glance and tone, Then fly with me, if thou hast known Come, if the love thou hast for me But if for me thou dost forsake Then fare thee well I'd rather make My bower upon some icy lake When thawing suns begin to shine, There was a pathos in this lay, That, e'en without enchantment's art, But breathing, as it did, a tone As if 'twere fix'd by magic there,- Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, |