It was not thus, in bowers of wanton ease,
Thy freedom nursed her sacred energies;
Oh, not beneath the enfeebling, withering glow
Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow,
With which she wreathed her sword, when she
would dare

..

Immortal deeds; but in the bracing air
Of toil, of temperance, of that high, rare,
Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe
Life, health, and lustre into Freedom's wreath.
Who that surveys this span of earth we press,
This speck of life in Time's great wilderness,
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas,
The past, the future, two eternities! —
Would sully the bright spot, or leave it bare,
When he might build him a proud temple there,
A name that long shall hallow all its space,
And be each purer soul's high resting-place?
But no
- it cannot be, that one whom God
Hath sent to break the wizard Falsehood's rod,
A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws
Its rights from Heaven, should thus profane its cause
With the world's vulgar pomp; no, no, I see
He thinks me weak- this glare of luxury
Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze

Of my young soul: shine on, 'twill stand the blaze!"

So thought the youth; - but, even while he defied This witching scene, he felt its witchery glide

The perfume breathing round,

Thro' every sense.
Like a pervading spirit;

the still sound

Of falling waters, lulling as the song
Of Indian bees at sunset, when they throng
Around the fragrant Nilica, and deep

In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep;
And music, too
dear music! that can touch

Beyond all else the soul that loves it much-
Now heard far off, so far as but to seem
Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream,·
All was too much for him, too full of bliss,
The heart could nothing feel, that felt not this: -
Soften'd he sunk upon a couch, and gave

His soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on wave
Succeeding in smooth seas, when storms are laid:
He thought of Zelica, his own dear maid,
And of the time when, full of blissful sighs,
They sat and look'd into each other's eyes,
Silent and happy — as if God had given

Nought else worth looking at on this side heaven.

66

O my loved mistress, thou whose spirit still round me, wander where I will,

Is with me,

It is for thee, for thee alone I seek
The paths of glory; to light up thy cheek
With warm approval — in that gentle look
To read my praise, as in an angel's book,
And think all toils rewarded, when from thee
I gain a smile worth immortality!

How shall I bear the moment when restored
To that young heart where I alone am lord,
Though of such bliss unworthy- since the best
Alone deserve to be the happiest,

When from those lips, unbreathed upon for years, I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears,

And find those tears warm as when last they started,
Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted?

O my own life! — why should a single day,
A moment, keep me from those arms away?”

While thus he thinks, still nearer on the breeze Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies, Each note of which but adds new downy links To the soft chain in which his spirit sinks. He turns him toward the sound, and far away Through a long vista sparkling with the play Of countless lamps, like the rich track which Day Leaves on the waters, when he sinks from us,' So long the path, its light so tremulous, He sees a group of female forms advance, Some chain'd together in the mazy dance By fetters, forged in the green sunny bowers, As they were captives to the King of Flowers; And some disporting round, unlink'd and free, Who seem'd to mock their sisters' slavery; And round and round them still, in wheeling flight, Went, like gay moths about a lamp at night; While others walk'd, as gracefully along Their feet kept time, the very soul of song,

From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly thrill,
Or their own youthful voices, heavenlier still.
And now they come, now pass before his eye,
Forms such as Nature moulds, when she would vie
With Fancy's pencil, and give birth to things
Lovely beyond its fairest picturings.
Awhile they dance before him, then divide,
Breaking, like rosy clouds at even-tide
Around the rich pavilion of the sun,
Till silently dispersing, one by one

Through many a path that from the chamber leads
To gardens, terraces, and moonlight meads,
Their distant laughter comes upon the wind,
And but one trembling nymph remains behind, -
Beckoning them back in vain, for they are gone,
And she is left in all that light alone;

No veil to curtain o'er her beauteous brow,
In its young bashfulness more beauteous now;
But a light golden chain-work round her hair,
Such as the maids of Yezd and Shiraz wear,
From which, on either side, gracefully hung
A golden amulet, in the Arab tongue
Engraven o'er with some immortal line
From Holy Writ, or bard scarce less divine;
While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood,
Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood,

-

Which once or twice she touch'd with hurried strain,
Then took her trembling fingers off again.

But when at length a timid glance she stole
At Azim, the sweet gravity of soul

She saw through all his features calm'd her fear,
And like a half-tamed antelope, more near,

Though shrinking still, she came; then sat her down

Upon a musnud's edge, and, bolder grown,
In the pathetic mode of Isfahan

Touch'd a preluding strain, and thus began:

There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.

That bower and its music I never forget;
But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year,
I think is the nightingale singing there yet?
Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?

No, the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gather'd while freshly

they shone,

And a dew was distill'd from their flowers that gave All the fragrance of summer, when summer was

gone.

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it many a year;
Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to mine eyes,
Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer.