Rung round their steps, at every bound more sweet, As 'twere th' extatic language of their feet!
At length the chase was o'er, and they stood wreath'd
Within each other's arms; while soft there breath'd Through the cool casement, mingled with the sighs Of moonlight flowers, music that sem'd to rise From some still lake, so liquidly it rose;
And, as it swell'd again at each faint close,
The ear could track through all that maze of chords And young sweet voices, these impassion'd words:
A SPIRIT there is, whose fragrant sigh
Is burning now through earth and air;
Where cheeks are blushing, the Spirit is nigh,
Where lips are meeting, the Spirit is there!
His breath is the soul of flowers like these,
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!
Sprit of Love, Spirit of Bliss!
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,
And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.
By the fair and brave,
Who blushing unite,
Like the sun and the wave,
When they meet at night!
*The blue lotos, which grows in Cashmere and in Persia.
By the tear that shows
When the passion is nigh,
As the rain-drop flows
From the heat of the sky!
By the first love-beat
Of the youthful heart,
By the bliss to meet,
And the pain to part!
By all that thou hast
To mortals given,
Which-oh! could it last,
This earth were heaven!
We call thee hither, entrancing Power!
Spirit of Love, Spirit of bliss!
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour!
And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.
Impatient of a scene, whose luxuries stole,
Spite of himself, too deep into his soul,
And where, midst all that the young heart loves most,
Flowers, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost,
The youth had started up and turn'd away
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 touch'd with that fine art
Which paints of pleasure but the purer part;
Which knows ev'u Beauty when half-veil❜d is best,
Like her own radiant planet of the west,
Whose orb when half retir'd looks loveliest!
There hung the history of the Genii-King,
Trac'd 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 Heav'n 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 pleas'd and lingering eye,
Did the youth pass these pictur'd stories by,
And hasten'd to a casement, where the light
Of the calmn moon came in, and freshly bright
The fields without were seen, sleeping as still
As if no life remain'd in breeze or rill.
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, v. D'Herbelot, and the Notes on the Koran, chap. 2.
The wife of Potiphar, thus named by the Orientals. Her adventure with the Patriarch Joseph is the subject of many of their poems and romances.
The particulars of Mahomets 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.
Here paus'd he, while the music, now less near,
Breath'd with a holier language on his ear.
As though the distance and that heavenly ray
Through which the sounds came floating took
All that had been too earthly in the lay.
Oh! could he listen to such sounds unmov'd,
And by that light-nor dream of her he lov'd?
Dream on, unconscious boy! while yet thou may'st;
'Tis the last bliss thy soul shall ever taste.
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 naught 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 shrin'd in solitude-thine all, thine only,
Like the one star above thee, bright and lonely!
Oh that a dream so sweet, so long enjoy'd,
Should be so sadly, cruelly destroy'd!
The song is hush'd, 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 veil'd,
Leaning, as if both heart and strength had fail'd,
Against a pillar near ;-not glittering o'er
With gems and wreaths, such as the other 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, i'c took away her last warm tears upon his cheek.
A strange emotion stirs within him,—more
Than mere compassion ever wak'd 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 chang'd-none but a lover
Could in that wreck of beauty's shrine discover
The once ador'd divinity! ev'n he
Stood for some moments mute, and doubtingly
l'ut back the ringlets from her brow, and gaz'd
Upon those lids, where once such lustre blaz❜d,
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, ev'n when grief was heaviest-when loth
He left her for the wars-in that worst hour
at in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower,† When darkness brings its weeping glories out And spreads its sighs like frankincense about!
"Deep-blue is their mourning colour."---Hanway.
The sorrowful nyctanthes, which begins to spread its rich odour after sun-set.
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