Her snowy hand across the strings Of a syrinda, and thus sings:-
Come hither, come hither-by night and by day, We linger in pleasures that never are gone; Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away Another as sweet and as shining comes on. And the Love thas is o'er, in expiring gives birth To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss; And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.
Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh As the flower of the Amra just op'd by a bee; And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,
Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. Oh think what the kiss and the smile must be worth, When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss ; And own if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.
Here sparkles the nectar that hallow'd by love, Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere,
Who for wine of this earth: left the fountains above, And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have
And, bless'd with the odour our goblets give fortli,
What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss ? For ah! if there be an Elysium on earth,
The Georgian's song was scarcely mute, When the same measure, sound for soundy Was caught up by another lute,
And so divinely breath'd around, That all stood hush'd and wondering, And turn'd and look'd into the air, As if they thought to see the wing Of Israfil, the angel, there :- So powerfully on every soul
That new, enchanted measure stole. While now a voice, sweet as the note Of the charm'd lute, was heard to float Along its chords, and so entwine
Its sound with theirs, that none knew whether The voice or lute was most divine,
So wond'rously they went together:
There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,
When two, that are link'd in one heavenly tie, With heart never changing and brow never cold, Love on through all ills, and love on till they die. One hour of a passion so sacred is worth Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss; And oh! if there be an elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.
'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words, But that deep magic in the chords And in the lips, that gave such power As music knew not till that hour.
At once a hundred voices said,
"It is the mask'd Arabian maid!"
While SELIM, who had felt the strain Deepest of any, and had lain
Some minutes wrapt, as in a trance, After the fairy sounds were o'er, Too inly touch'd for utterance,
Now motion'd with his hand for more :
Fly to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But oh! the choice what heart can doubt, Of tents with love, or thrones without?
Our rocks are rough, but smiling there Th' acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet, nor lov'd the less For flowering in a wilderness.
Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs As o'er the marble courts of kings.
Then come-thy Arab maid will be The lov'd and lone acacia-tree, The antelope, whose feet shall bless With their light sound thy loneliness.
Oh! there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine through the heart,- As if the soul that minute caught Some treasure it through life had sought;
As if the very lips and eyes Predestin'd to have all our sighs, And never be forgot again, Sparkled and spoke before us then;
So came thy every glance and tone, When first on me they breath'd and shone; New, as if brought from other spheres, Yet welcome as if lov'd for years!
Then fly with me,-if thou hast known No other flame, nor falsely thrown A gem away, that thou hadst sworn Should ever in thy heart be worn.
Come, if the love thou hast for me Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, Fresh as the fountain under ground When first 'tis by the lapwing found. But if for me thou dost forsake Some other maid, and rudely break Her worshipp'd image from its base, To give to me the ruin'd place;-
Then fare thee well-I'd rather make My bower upon some icy lake When thawing suns begin to shine, Than trust to love so false as thine!
There was a pathos in this lay,
That, ev'n without enchantment's art, Would instantly have found its way Deep into SELIM's burning heart;
But breathing, as it did, a tone To earthly lutes and lips unknown; With every chord fresh from the touch Of music's spirit,-'twas too much! Starting, he dash'd away the cup,
Which, all the time of this sweet air, His hand had held, untasted, up,
As if 'twas held by magic there,- And naming her, so long unnam'd, So long unseen, wildly exclaim'd, "Oh NoURMAHAL! oh NoURMAHAL!
Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, "I could forget-forgive thee all,
"And never leave those eyes again.
The mask is off-the charm is wrought- And SELIM to his heart has caught, In blushes, more than ever bright, His NOURMAHAL, his haram's light! And well do vanish'd frowns enhance The charm of every brighten'd glance; And dearer seems each dawning smile For having loss its light awhile; And, happier now for all her sighs, As on his arm her head reposes, She whispers him, with laughing eyes, "Remember, love, the Feast of Roses!"
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