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I know where the winged visions dwell
That around the night-bed play;
I know each herb and floweret'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 hope, in dreams, of a happier hour
That alights on misery's brow,
Springs out of the silvery almond-flower,
That blooms on a leafless bough.
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, 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,
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
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
Placed 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 Azab 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 ;-
And now a spirit form'd, 'twould seem,
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's warbling fount I come,
Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell;
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.
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.

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure The past, the present, and future of pleasure; 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 inmost 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.

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'Tis dawn-at least that earlier dawn,
Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,
As if the morn had waked, and then
Shut close her lids of light again.
And Nourmahal is up, and trying

The wonders of her lute, whose strings--
O 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.

That evening (trusting that his soul
Might be from haunting love released
By mirth, by music, and the bowl)
Th' imperial Selim held a feast
In his magnificent Shalimar ;—
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.

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 south

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 ;-
Daughters of Love from Cyprus' rocks,
With Paphian diamonds in their locks
Light Peri forms, such as there are
On the gold meads of Candahar;
And they, before whose sleepy eyes,

In their own bright Kathaian bowers,
Sparkle such rainbow butterflies,

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That they might fancy the rich flowers,
That round them in the sun lay sighing,
Had been by magic all set flying!
Everything young, everything fair
From east to west is blushing there,
Except-except-O 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 everything 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.—

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