I know each herb and floweret's bell, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. The image of love that nightly flies To visit the bashful maid, Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs The hope, in dreams, of a happier hour To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. The visions that oft to worldly eyes The phantom shapes oh, touch not them That appall the murderer's sight, Lurk in the fleshly 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 injured patient mind, That smiles at the wrongs of men, Is found in the bruised and wounded rind Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping; And now a spirit form'd, 'twould seem, Of music and of light, so fair, From Chindara's warbling fount I come, 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! From my fairy home; And if there's a magic in music strain, Of that moonlight wreath, Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again! For mine is the lay that lightly floats, And the passionate strain that, deeply going, Mine is the charm whose mystic sway Let but the tuneful talisman sound, And they come, like Genii, hovering round. And mine is the gentle song that bears 'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure With the blissful tone that's still in the ear, To a note more heavenly still that is near! The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me, 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 inmost soul, From my fairy home, And if there's a magic in music strain, Of that moonlight wreath, Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again. 'Tis dawn, at least that earlier dawn -- Whose glimpses are again withdrawn, And Nourmahal is up, and trying The wonders of her lute, whose strings Oh, bliss!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; Sweet as the breath of angel sighs, So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness 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 released |