From the light nymphs, and their luxurious lay,
To muse upon the pictures that hung round,*-
Bright images that spoke without a sound,
And views like vistas into fairy ground.
But here again new spells came o'er his sense :-
All that the pencil's mute omnipotence
Could call up into life, of soft and fair,
Of fond and passionate, was glowing there;
Nor yet too warm, but touched with that fine art
Which paints of pleasure but the purer part;
Which knows even Beauty when half-veiled is best,-
Like her own radiant planet of the west,
Whose orb when half retired looks loveliest.
There hung the history of the Genii-King,
Traced through each gay, voluptuous wandering
With her from Saba's bowers, in whose bright eyes
He read that to be blest is to be wise ;+-
Here fond Zuleika‡ woos with open arms
The Hebrew boy, who flies from her young charms,
Yet, flying, turns to gaze, and, half undone,
Wishes that Heaven and she could both be won;
And here Mohammed, born for love and guile,
Forgets the Koran in his Mary's smile ;—
Then beckons some kind angel from above
With a new text to consecrate their love.§
With rapid step, yet pleased and lingering eye,
Did the youth pass these pictured stories by,
And hastened 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 remained 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
All that had been too earthly in the lay.
Oh! could he listen to such sounds unmoved,
And by that light-nor dream of her he loved?
Dream on, unconscious boy! while yet thou mayst;
'Tis the last bliss thy soul shall ever taste.
* It has been generally supposed that the Mahometans prohibit all pictures of animals; but Toderini shows that, though the practice is forbidden by the Koran, they are not more averse to painted figures and images than other people. From Mr. Murphy's work, too, we find that the Arabs of Spain had no objection to the introduction of figures into painting.
For the loves of King Solomon (who was supposed to preside over the whole race of Genii) with Balkis, the Queen of Sheba or Saba, see D'Herbelot, and the Notes on the Koran, chap. 2.
The wife of Potiphar, thus named by the Orientals.
$ The particulars of Mahomet's amour with Mary, the Coptic girl, in justification of which he added a new chapter to the Koran, may be found in Gagnier's Notes upon Abulfeda, p. 151.
Clasp yet awhile her image to thy heart,
Ere all the light that made it dear depart.
Think of her smiles as when thou saw'st them last,
Clear, beautiful, by nought of earth o'ercast;
Recall her tears, to thee at parting given,
Pure as they weep, if angels weep, in Heaven.
Think, in her own still bower she waits thee now,
With the same glow of heart and bloom of brow,
Yet shrined in solitude-thine all, thine only,
Like the one star above thee, bright and lonely.
Oh! that a dream so sweet, so long enjoyed,
Should be so sadly, cruelly destroyed!
The song is hushed, the laughing nymphs are flown,
And he is left, musing of bliss, alone ;-
Alone?-no, not alone-that heavy sigh,
That sob of grief, which broke from some one nigh
Whose could it be?-alas! is misery found
Here, even here, on this enchanted ground?
He turns, and sees a female form, close veiled,
Leaning, as if both heart and strength had failed,
Against a pillar near;-not glittering o'er
With gems and wreaths, such as the others wore,
But in that deep-blue melancholy dress*
Bokhara's maidens wear in mindfulness
Of friends or kindred dead or far away;-
And such as Zelica had on that day
He left her when, with heart too full to speak,
He took away her last warm tears upon his cheek.
A strange emotion stirs within him,—more
Than mere compassion ever waked before;
Unconsciously he opes his arms, while she
Springs forward, as with life's last energy,
But, swooning in that one convulsive bound,
Sinks, ere she reach his arms, upon the ground;-
Her veil falls off-her faint hands clasp his knees-
'Tis she herself!-'tis Zelica he sees!
But ah so pale, so changed-none but a lover
Could in that wreck of beauty's shrine discover
The once-adored divinity-even he
Stood for some moments mute, and doubtingly
Put back the ringlets from her brow, and gazed
Upon those lids where once such lustre blazed,
Ere he could think she was indeed his own,
Own darling maid, whom he so long had known
In joy and sorrow, beautiful in both;
Who, even when grief was heaviest when loth
He left her for the wars-in that worst hour
Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower,+
• "Deep blue is their mourning colour."-Harway.
The sorrowful nyctanthes, which begins to spread its rich odour after
When darkness brings its weeping glories out,
And spreads its sighs like frankincense about.
"Look up, my Zelica-one moment show
Those gentle eyes to me, that I may know
Thy life, thy loveliness is not all gone,
But there, at least, shines as it ever shone.
Come, look upon thy Azim-one dear glance,
Like those of old, were heaven! whatever chance
Hath brought thee here, oh 'twas a blessed one!
There my loved lips-they move-that kiss hath run
Like the first shoot of life through every vein,
And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again.
Oh the delight-now, in this very hour,
When, had the whole rich world been in my power,
I should have singled out thee, only thee,
From the whole world's collected treasury-
To have thee here-to hang thus fondly o'er
My own, best, purest Zelica once more!"
It was indeed the touch of those fond lips
Upon her eyes that chased their short eclipse,
And, gradual as the snow, at Heaven's breath,
Melts off and shows the azure flowers beneath,
Her lids unclosed, and the bright eyes were seen
Gazing on his-not, as they late had been,
Quick, restless, wild, but mournfully serene;
As if to lie, even for that tranced minute,
So near his heart, had consolation in it;
And thus to wake in his beloved caress
Took from her soul one half its wretchedness.
But, when she heard him call her good and pure,
Oh 'twas too much-too dreadful to endure!
Shuddering she broke away from his embrace,
And, hiding with both hands her guilty face,
Said, in a tone whose anguish would have riven
A heart of very marble, "Pure!-oh Heaven !"-
That tone-those looks so changed-the withering blight That sin and sorrow leave where'er they light;
The dead despondency of those sunk eyes,
Where once, had he thus met her by surprise,
He would have seen himself, too happy boy,
Reflected in a thousand lights of joy;
And then the place,-that bright, unholy place,
Where vice lay hid beneath each winning grace
And charm of luxury, as the viper weaves
Its wily cowering of sweet balsam leaves,—
All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold
As death itself;-it needs not to be told-
No, no-he sees it all, plain as the brand
Of burning shame can mark-whate'er the hand
That could from Heaven and him such brightness sever,
"Tis done to Heaven and him she's lost for ever!> It was a dreadful moment; not the tears,
The lingering, lasting misery of years
Could match that minute's anguish-all the worst
Of sorrow's elements in that dark burst
Broke o'er his soul, and, with one crash of fate,
Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate.
"Oh! curse me not," she cried, as wild he tossed His desperate hand tow'rds Heaven-"though I am lost, Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me fall, No, no-'twas grief, 'twas madness did it all!
Nay, doubt me not-though all thy love hath ceasedI know it hath-yet, yet believe, at least,
That every spark of reason's light must be
Quenched in this brain ere I could stray from thee.
They told me thou wert dead-why, Azim, why
Did we not, both of us, that instant die
When we were parted? oh! couldst thou but know
With what a deep devotedness of woe
I wept thy absence-o'er and o'er again
Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain,
And memory, like a drop that, night and day,
Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away.
Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home,
My eyes still turned the way thou wert to come,
And, all the long, long night of hope and fear,
Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear-
Oh God! thou wouldst not wonder that, at last,
When every hope was all at once o'ercast,
When I heard frightful voices round me say
Azim is dead!-this wretched brain gave way,
And I became a wreck, at random driven,
Without one glimpse of reason or of Heaven-
All wild-and even this quenchless love within
Turned to foul fires to light me into sin !—
Thou pitiest me-I knew thou wouldst-that sky
Hath nought beneath it half so lorn as I.
The fiend who lured me hither-hist! come near,
Or thou too, thou art lost, if he should hear-
Told me such things-oh! with such devilish art,
As would have ruined even a holier heart-
Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere,
Where blessed at length, if I but served him here,
I should for ever live in thy dear sight,
And drink from those pure eyes eternal light.
Think, think how lost, how maddened I must be,
To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee!
Thou weep'st for me-do weep-oh that I durst
Kiss off that tear! but no-these lips are curst,
They must not touch thee;-one divine caress,
One blessed moment of forgetfulness
I've had within those arms, and that shall lie,
Shrined in my soul's deep memory till I die;
The last of joy's last relics here below,
The one sweet drop, in all this waste of woe,
My heart has treasured from affection's spring,
To soothe and cool its deadly withering!
But thou-yes, thou must go-for ever go;
This place is not for thee-for thee! oh no:
Did I but tell thee half, thy tortured brain
Would burn like mine, and mine go wild again!
Enough, that Guilt reigns here-that hearts, once good,
Now tainted, chilled, and broken, are his food.—
Enough, that we are parted-that there rolls
A flood of headlong fate between our souls,
Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee
As hell from heaven, to all eternity!"
"Zelica, Zelica!" the youth exclaimed,
In all the tortures of a mind inflamed
Almost to madness-"by that sacred Heaven
Where yet, if prayers can move, thou'lt be forgiven,
As thou art here-here, in this writhing heart,
All sinful, wild, and ruined as thou art !
By the remembrance of our once pure love,
Which like a church-yard light still burns above
The grave of our lost souls-which guilt in thee
Cannot extinguish, nor despair in me!
I do conjure, implore thee to fly hence-
If thou hast yet one spark of innocence,
Fly with me from this place"
"With thee! oh bliss!
'Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this.
What! take the lost one with thee?-let her rove
By thy dear side, as in those days of love,
When we were both so happy, both so pure--
Too heavenly dream! if there's on earth a cure
For the sunk heart, 'tis this-day after day
To be the blest companion of thy way;
To hear thy angel eloquence-to see
Those virtuous eyes for ever turned on me;
And, in their light re-chastened silently,
Like the stained web that whitens in the sun,
Grow pure by being purely shone upon!
And thou wilt pray for me-I know thou wilt-
At the dim vesper hour, when thoughts of guilt
Come heaviest o'er the heart, thou❜lt lift thine eyes,
Full of sweet tears, unto the darkening skies,
And plead for me with Heaven, till I can dare
To fix my own weak, sinful glances there;
Till the good angels, when they see me cling
For ever near thee, pale and sorrowing,
Shall for thy sake pronounce my soul forgiven,
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