Who has not heard of the vale of Cashmere,

With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,311

Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear

As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?

286

Oh! to see it at sunset,—when warm o’er the Lake

Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws,

Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take

A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!—

When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown,

And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own.

Here the music of pray’r from a minaret swells,

Here the Magian his urn, full of perfume, is swinging,

And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells

Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.312

Or to see it by moonlight,—when mellowly shines

The light o’er its palaces, gardens, and shrines;

When the water-falls gleam, like a quick fall of stars,

And the nightingale’s hymn from the Isle of Chenars

Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet

From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet.—

Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes

A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks,

Hills, cupolas, fountains, call’d forth every one

Out of darkness, as if but just born of the Sun.

When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day,

From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away;

And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover

The young aspen-trees,313 till they tremble all over.

287

When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes,

And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl’d,

Shines in through the mountainous portal314 that opes,

Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world!

’Twas when the hour of evening came

Upon the Lake, serene and cool,

When Day had hid his sultry flame

Behind the palms of Baramoule,317

When maids began to lift their heads,

288

Refresh’d from their embroider’d beds,

Where they had slept the sun away,

And wak’d to moonlight and to play.

All were abroad—the busiest hive

On Bela’s318 hills is less alive,

When saffron-beds are full in flower,

Than look’d the Valley in that hour.

A thousand restless torches play’d

Through every grove and island shade,

A thousand sparkling lamps were set

On every dome and minaret;

And fields and pathways, far and near,

Were lighted by a blaze so clear,

That you could see, in wandering round,

The smallest rose-leaf on the ground.

Yet did the maids and matrons leave

Their veils at home, that brilliant eve;

And there were glancing eyes about,

And cheeks, that would not dare shine out

In open day, but thought they might

Look lovely then, because ’twas night.

And all were free, and wandering,

And all exclaim’d to all they met,

That never did the summer bring

So gay a Feast of Roses yet;—

The moon had never shed a light

289

So clear as that which bless’d them there;

The roses ne’er shone half so bright,

Nor they themselves look’d half so fair.

290

Then, the sounds from the Lake, the low whispering in boats,

As they shoot through the moonlight;—the dipping of oars,

And the wild, airy warbling that every where floats,

Through the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores,

Like those of Kathay, utter’d music, and gave

An answer in song to the kiss of each wave.322

But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of feeling,

That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing,—

Some lover, who knows all the heart-touching power

Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour.

Oh! best of delights as it every where is

To be near the lov’d One,—what a rapture is his

Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide

O’er the Lake of Cashmere, with that One by his side!

If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,

Think, think what a Heaven she must make of Cashmere!

So felt the magnificent Son of Acbar,323

When from power and pomp and the trophies of war

He flew to that Valley, forgetting them all

With the Light of the Haram, his young Nourmahal.

When free and uncrown’d as the Conqueror rov’d

By the banks of that Lake, with his only belov’d,

He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch

291

From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match,

And prefrr’d in his heart the least ringlet that curl’d

Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world.

There’s a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright,

Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day’s light,

292

Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender,

Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour.

This was not the beauty—oh, nothing like this,

That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss!

But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays

Like the light upon autumn’s soft shadowy days,

Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies

From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes;

Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams,

Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heav’n in his dreams.

When pensive, it seem’d as if that very grace,

That charm of all others, was born with her face!

And when angry,—for ev’n in the tranquillest climes

Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes—

The short, passing anger but seem’d to awaken

New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken.

If tenderness touch’d her, the dark of her eye

At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,

From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings

From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings.

Then her mirth—oh! ’twas sportive as ever took wing

From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring;

Illum’d by a wit that would fascinate sages,

Yet playful as Peris just loos’d from their cages.324

While her laugh, full of life, without any control

But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul;

293

And where it most sparkled no glance could discover,

In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten’d all over,—

Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon,

When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun.

Such, such were the peerless enchantments that gave

Nourmahal the proud Lord of the East for her slave:

And though bright was his Haram,—a living parterre

Of the flowers325 of this planet—though treasures were there,

For which Soliman’s self might have giv’n all the store

That the navy from Ophir e’er wing’d to his shore,

Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all,

And the Light of his Haram was young Nourmahal!

294

Alas!—how light a cause may move

Dissension between hearts that love!

Hearts that the world in vain had tried,

And sorrow but more closely tied;

That stood the storm, when waves were rough,

Yet in a sunny hour fall off,

Like ships that have gone down at sea,

When heaven was all tranquillity!

A something, light as air—a look,

A word unkind or wrongly taken—

Oh! love, that tempests never shook,

A breath, a touch like this hath shaken.

And ruder words will soon rush in

To spread the breach that words begin;

And eyes forget the gentle ray

They wore in courtship’s smiling day;

And voices lose the tone that shed

A tenderness round all they said;

Till fast declining, one by one,

The sweetnesses of love are gone,

And hearts, so lately mingled, seem

Like broken clouds,—or like the stream,

That smiling left the mountain’s brow

As though its waters ne’er could sever,

Yet, ere it reach the plain below,

Breaks into floods, that part for ever.

Oh, you, that have the charge of Love,

Keep him in rosy bondage bound,

As in the Fields of Bliss above

He sits, with flow’rets fetter’d round;327—

Loose not a tie that round him clings,

Nor ever let him use his wings;

For e’en an hour, a minute’s flight

Will rob the plumes of half their light.

Like that celestial bird,—whose nest

Is found beneath far Eastern skies,—

Whose wings, though radiant when at rest,

Lose all their glory when he flies!328

296

Some difference, of this dangerous kind,—

By which, though light, the links that bind

The fondest hearts may soon be riven;

Some shadow in Love’s summer heaven,

Which, though a fleecy speck at first,

May yet in awful thunder burst;—

Such cloud it is that now hangs over

The heart of the Imperial Lover,

And far hath banish’d from his sight

His Nourmahal, his Haram’s Light!

Hence is it, on this happy night,

When Pleasure through the fields and groves

Has let loose all her world of loves,

And every heart has found its own,

He wanders, joyless and alone,

And weary as that bird of Thrace,

Whose pinion knows no resting place.329

In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes

This Eden of the Earth supplies

Come crowding round—the cheeks are pale,

The eyes are dim:—though rich the spot

With every flow’r this earth has got,

What is it to the nightingale,

If there his darling rose is not?330

In vain the Valley’s smiling throng

Worship him, as he moves along;

297

He heeds them not—one smile of hers

Is worth a world of worshippers.

They but the Star’s adorers are,

She is the Heav’n that lights the Star!

Hence is it, too, that Nourmahal,

Amid the luxuries of this hour,

Far from the joyous festival,

Sits in her own sequester’d bower,

With no one near, to soothe or aid,

But that inspir’d and wondrous maid,

Namouna, the Enchantress;—one,

298

O’er whom his race the golden sun

For unremember’d years has run,

Yet never saw her blooming brow

Younger or fairer than ’tis now.

Nay, rather,—as the west wind’s sigh

Freshens the flower it passes by,—

Time’s wing but seem’d, in stealing o’er,

To leave her lovelier than before.

Yet on her smiles a sadness hung,

And when, as oft, she spoke or sung

Of other worlds, there came a light

From her dark eyes so strangely bright,

That all believ’d nor man nor earth

Were conscious of Namouna’s birth!

All spells and talismans she knew,

From the great Mantra,331 which around

The Air’s sublimer Spirits drew,

To the gold gems332 of Afric, bound

Upon the wandering Arab’s arm,

To keep him from the Siltim’s333 harm.

And she had pledg’d her powerful art,—

Pledg’d it with all the zeal and heart

Of one who knew, though high her sphere,

What ’twas to lose a love so dear,—

To find some spell that should recall

Her Selim’s334 smile to Nourmahal!

299

’Twas midnight—through the lattice, wreath’d

With woodbine, many a perfume breath’d

From plants that wake when others sleep,

From timid jasmine buds, that keep

Their odour to themselves all day,

But, when the sun-light dies away,

Let the delicious secret out

To every breeze that roams about;—

When thus Namouna:—“’Tis the hour

“That scatters spells on herb and flower,

“And garlands might be gather’d now,

“That, twin’d around the sleeper’s brow,

“Would make him dream of such delights,

“Such miracles and dazzling sights,

“As Genii of the Sun behold,

“At evening, from their tents of gold

“Upon the’ horizon—where they play

“Till twilight comes, and, ray by ray,

“Their sunny mansions melt away.

“Now, too, a chaplet might be wreath’d

“Of buds o’er which the moon has breath’d,

“Which worn by her, whose love has stray’d,

“Might bring some Peri from the skies,

“Some sprite, whose very soul is made

“Of flow’rets’ breaths and lovers’ sighs,

“And who might tell——”

300

“For me, for me,”

Cried Nourmahal impatiently,—

“Oh! twine that wreath for me to-night.”

Then, rapidly, with foot as light

As the young musk-roe’s, out she flew,

To cull each shining leaf that grew

Beneath the moonlight’s hallowing beams,

For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams.

Anemones and Seas of Gold,335

And new-blown lilies of the river,

And those sweet flow’rets, that unfold

Their buds on Camadeva’s quiver;336

The tube-rose, with her silvery light,

That in the Gardens of Malay

Is call’d the Mistress of the Night,337

So like a bride, scented and bright,

She comes out when the sun’s away;—

Amaranths, such as crown the maids

That wander through Zamara’s shades;338—

And the white moon-flower, as it shows,

On Serendib’s high crags, to those

Who near the isle at evening sail,

Scenting her clove-trees in the gale;

In short, all flow’rets and all plants,

From the divine Amrita tree,339

That blesses heaven’s inhabitants

301

With fruits of immortality,

Down to the basil tuft,340 that waves

Its fragrant blossom over graves,

And to the humble rosemary,

Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed

To scent the desert341 and the dead:—

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 the’ 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 flow’rs and scented flame, that fed

Her charmèd life—for none had e’er

Beheld her taste of mortal fare,

Nor ever in aught earthly dip,

302

But the morn’s dew, her roseate lip.

Fill’d with the cool, inspiring smell,

The’ Enchantress now begins her spell,

Thus singing as she winds and weaves

In mystic form the glittering leaves:—

I know where the winged visions dwell

That around the night-bed play;

I know each herb and flow’ret’s bell,

Where they hide their wings by day.

Then hasten we, maid,

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

Its soul, like her, in the shade.

The dream of a future, happier hour,

That alights on misery’s brow,

Springs out of the silvery almond-flower,

That blooms on a leafless bough.342

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,343 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 fleshly mandrake’s stem,

304

That shrieks, when pluck’d 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;—

And, suddenly, a tuneful breeze,

As full of small, rich harmonies

As ever wind, that o’er the tents

Of Azab344 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;345

And now a Spirit form’d, ’twould seem,

305

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’s346 warbling fount I come,

Call’d by that moonlight garland’s spell;

306

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,

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.

For mine is the lay that lightly floats,

And mine are the 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.

307

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.347

’Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure

The past, the present, and future of pleasure;348

When Memory links the tone that is gone

With the blissful tone that’s still in the ear;

And Hope from a heavenly note flies 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

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 the silent stars, that wink and listen

While Heaven’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.

308

’Tis dawn—at least that earlier dawn,

Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,349

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 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,

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.

309

That evening, (trusting that his soul

Might be from haunting love releas’d

By mirth, by music, and the bowl,)

The’ Imperial Selim held a feast

In his magnificent Shalimar:350—

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;351

And all those wandering minstrel-maids,

Who leave—how can they leave?—the shades

Of that dear Valley, and are found

Singing in gardens of the South352

Those songs, that ne’er so sweetly sound

As from a young Cashmerian’s mouth.

There, too, the Haram’s inmates smile;—

Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair,

And from the Garden of the Nile,

Delicate as the roses there;353—

Daughters of Love from Cyprus’ rocks,

With Paphian diamonds in their locks;354—

Light Peri forms, such as there are

On the gold meads of Candahar;355

And they, before whose sleepy eyes,

310

In their own bright Kathaian bowers,

Sparkle such rainbow butterflies,

That they might fancy the rich flowers,

That round them in the sun lay sighing,

Had been by magic all set flying.356

Every thing young, every thing fair

From East and West is blushing there,

Except—except—oh, Nourmahal!

Thou loveliest, dearest of them all,

The one, whose smile shone out alone,

Amidst a world the only one;

Whose light, among so many lights,

Was like that star on starry nights,

The seaman singles from the sky,

To steer his bark for ever by!

Thou wert not there—so Selim thought,

And every thing seem’d drear without thee;

But, ah! thou wert, thou wert,—and brought

Thy charm of song all fresh about thee.

Mingling unnoticed with a band

Of lutanists from many a land,

And veil’d by such a mask as shades

The features of young Arab maids,357—

A mask that leaves but one eye free,

To do its best in witchery,—

311

She rov’d, with beating heart, around,

And waited, trembling, for the minute,

When she might try if still the sound

Of her lov’d lute had magic in it.

The board was spread with fruits and wine;

With grapes of gold, like those that shine

On Casbin’s hills;358—pomegranates full

Of melting sweetness, and the pears,

And sunniest apples359 that Caubul

In all its thousand gardens360 bears;—

Plantains, the golden and the green,

Malaya’s nectar’d mangusteen;361

Prunes of Bokara, and sweet nuts

From the far groves of Samarcand,

And Basra dates, and apricots,

Seed of the Sun,362 from Iran’s land;—

With rich conserve of Visna cherries,363

Of orange flowers, and of those berries

That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles

Feed on in Erac’s rocky dells.364

All these in richest vases smile,

In baskets of pure santal-wood,

And urns of porcelain from that isle365

Sunk underneath the Indian flood,

Whence oft the lucky diver brings

312

Vases to grace the halls of kings.

Wines, too, of every clime and hue,

Around their liquid lustre threw;

Amber Rosolli,366—the bright dew

From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing;367

And Shiraz wine, that richly ran

As if that jewel, large and rare,

The ruby for which Kublai-Khan

Offer’d a city’s wealth,368 was blushing

Melted within the goblets there!

And amply Selim quaffs of each,

And seems resolv’d the flood shall reach

His inward heart,—shedding around

A genial deluge, as they run,

That soon shall leave no spot undrown’d,

For Love to rest his wings upon.

He little knew how well the boy

Can float upon a goblet’s streams,

Lighting them with his smile of joy;—

As bards have seen him in their dreams,

Down the blue Ganges laughing glide

Upon a rosy lotus wreath,369

Catching new lustre from the tide

That with his image shone beneath.

313

But what are cups, without the aid

Of song to speed them as they flow?

And see—a lovely Georgian maid,

With all the bloom, the freshen’d glow

Of her own country maidens’ looks,

When warm they rise from Teflis’ brooks;370

And with an eye, whose restless ray,

Full, floating, dark—oh, he, who knows

His heart is weak, of heaven should pray

To guard him from such eyes as those!—

With a voluptuous wildness flings

Her snowy hand across the strings

Of a syrinda,371 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 that 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.372

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh

As the flower of the Amra just op’d by a bee;373

314

And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,374

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 earth375 left the fountains above,

And forgot heaven’s stars for the eyes we have here.

And, bless’d with the odour our goblet gives forth,

What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss?

For, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this.

The Georgian’s song was scarcely mute,

When the same measure, sound for sound,

Was caught up by another lute,

And so divinely breathed 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,376 the Angel, there;—

315

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 sounds with theirs, that none knew whether

The voice or lute was most divine,

So wondrously 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.

Some minutes rapt, as in a trance,

After the fairy sounds were o’er,

Too inly touched for utterance,

Now motion’d with his hand for more:—

317

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

The’ 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,

318

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 loved 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.377

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!

319

There was a pathos in this lay,

That, e’en 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 ’twere fix’d 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 brightened glance;

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And dearer seems each dawning smile

For having lost 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!”