And now the curtains fly apart, and in From the cool air, 'mid showers of jessamine The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground, Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance, Around the white necks of the nymphs who danced Hung carcanets of orient gems, that glanced More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering o'er The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore; While from their long, dark tresses, in a fall Of curls descending, bells as musical. As those that on the golden-shafted trees Of Eden shake in the Eternal Breeze, Rung round their steps, at every bound more sweet, At length the chase was o'er, and they stood wreathed And his floating eyes oh! they resemble Blue water-lilies, when the breeze Is making the stream around them tremble! Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power! Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as this. We call thee hither, entrancing Power! Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as this. All that the pencil's mute omnipotence Of fond and passionate, was glowing there; Nor yet too warm, but touch'd with that fine art Which knows e'en Beauty when half veil'd is best, Whose orb when half retired looks loveliest ! There hung the history of the Genii-King, Here fond Zuleika wooes with open arms The Hebrew boy, who flies from her young charms, And here Mohammed, born for love and guile, With rapid step, yet pleased and lingering eye, Did the youth pass these pictured stories by, And hasten'd to a casement, where the light Of the calm moon came in, and freshly bright The fields without were seen, sleeping as still As if no life remain'd in breeze or rill. Here paused he, while the music, now less near, Breathed with a holier language on his ear, As though the distance and that heavenly ray Through which the sounds came floating, took away |