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All in that garden bloom, and all
Are gather'd by young NOURMAHAL,
Who heaps her baskets with the flowers
And leaves, till they can hold no more;
Then to NAMOUNA flies and showers
Upon her lap the shining store.

With what delight th' Enchantress views
So many buds, bath'd with the dews
And beams of that bless'd hour!-her glance
Spoke something, past all mortal pleasures,
As, in a kind of holy trance,

She hung above those fragrant treasures,
Bending to drink their balmy airs,
As if she mix'd her soul with theirs.
And 'twas, indeed, the perfume shed
From flowers and scented flame that fed
Her charm'd life-for none had e'er
Beheld her taste of mortal fare,
Nor ever in aught earthly dip,
But the morn's dew, her roseate lip.
Fill'd with the cool, inspiring smell,
Th' Enchantress now begins her spell,
Thus singing, as she winds and weaves
In mystic form the glittering leaves:-

I know where the wing'd visions dwell
That around the night-bed play;
I know each herb and flowret's bell,

Where they hide their wings by day.

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Drawn by R.Westall R.A

LALLA ROOKH.

TH ENCHANTRESS NOW BEGINS HER SPELL,

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Pub by C.Wiley &C and Kirk & Mercein New York & M.Thomas Philad

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR. LENOX

TILDEN FOUNDATIONS.

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