Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The visions that oft to worldly eyes
The glitter of mines unfold,
Inhabit the mountain-herb,* that dyes
The tooth of the fawn like gold,

The phantom shapes-oh touch not them-
That appal the murderer's sight,
Lurk in the fleshy mandrake's stem,
That shrieks, when torn at night!
Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The dream of the injur'd, patient mind,

That smiles at the wrongs

of men,

Is found in the bruis'd and wounded rind

Of the cinnamon, sweetest then!

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

No sooner was the flowery crown

Plac'd on her head, than sleep came down,
Gently as nights of summer fall,

Upon the lids of NOURMAHAL ;—

*An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to communicate a yellow golden hue to the teeth of the goats and other ani mals that graze upon it.

And, suddenly, a tuneful breeze,
As full of small, rich harmonies
As ever wind, that o'er the tents
Of AZAB blew, was full of scents,
Steals on her ear and floats and swells,
Like the first air of morning creeping
Into those wreathy, Red-Sea shells,
Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping;-
And now a spirit form'd, 'twould seem,
Of music and of light, so fair,
So brilliantly his features beam,
And such a sound is in the air

Of sweetness, when he waves his wings,
Hovers around her, and thus sings:-

From CHINDARA's warbling fount I come,
Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell;
From CHINDARA's fount, my fairy home,
Where in music, morn and night, I dwell.
Where lutes in the air are heard about,
And voices are singing the whole day long,
And every sigh the heart breathes out
Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song!
Hither I come

From my fairy home,

The myrrh country.

"This idea [of deities living in shells] was not unknown to the Greeks, who represent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in shells on the shores of the Red Sea."-Wil ford.

"A fabulous fountain, where instruments are said to be constantly playing."--Richardson.

And if there's a magic in Music's strain,
I swear by the breath

Of the moonlight wreath,

Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

For mine is the lay that lightly floats,
And mine are murmuring, dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea,
And melt in the heart as instantly!
And the passionate strain that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through,
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too!

Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway
The Spirits of past Delight obey ;-
Let but the tuneful talisman sound,
And they come, like Genii, hovering round.
And mine is the gentle song, that bears
From soul to soul, the wishes of love,
As a bird, that wafts through genial airs
The cinnamon seed from grove to grove.*
'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure
The past, the present, and future of pleasure;
When Memory links the tone that is gone

With the blissful tone that's still in the ear; And Hope from a heavenly note flees on,

To a note more heavenly still that is near!

The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me,
Can as downy soft and as yielding be,

"The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to different places, is a great dis semnator of this valuable tree."--v. Brown's Illustr. Tab. 19.

As his own white plume, that high amid death Through the field has shone-yet moves with a breath.

And, oh, how the eyes of beauty glisten,

When Music has reach'd her inward soul,
Like th silent stars, that wink and listen
While Heav'n's eternal melodies roll!
So hither I come,

From my fairy home,

And if there's a magic in Music's strain,
I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath,

Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

'Tis dawn-at least that earlier dawn,
Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,"
As if the morn had wak'd, and then
Shut close her lids of light again.
And NOURMAHAL is up, and trying

The wonders of her late, whose strings----
Oh bliss!-now murmur like the sighing
From that ambrosial Spirit's wings!
And then, her voice-'tis more than human
Never, till now, had it been given

To lips of any mortal woman

To utter notes so fresh from heaven;

They have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim, and the Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real day-break."—Waring.

Sweet as the breath of angel sighs,
When angel sighs are most divine.--
"Oh! let it last till night," she cries,
"And he is more than ever mine."
And hourly she renews the lay,

So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness
Should, ere the evening, fade away,—

For things so heavenly have such fleetness!
But, far from fading, it but grows
Richer, diviner as it flows;

Till rapt she dwells on every string,
And pours again each sound along,
Like Echo, lost and languishing

In love with her own wondrous song.
That evening, (trusting that his soul
Might be from haunting love releas'd
By mirth, by music, and the bowl)
Th' Imperial SELIM held a Feast
In his magnificent Shalimar;
In whose Saloons, when the first star
Of evening o'er the waters trembled,
The Valley's loveliest all assembled;
All the bright creatures that, like dreams,
Glide through its foliage, and drink beams
Of beauty from its founts and streams,*
And all those wandering minstrel-maids,
Who leave-how can they leave ?-the shades
Of that dear Valley, and are found

"The waters of Cachemir are the more renowned from its being supposed that the Cachemirians are indebted for their beauty to them."-Ali Yezdi.