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-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-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-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.
'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,
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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