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A mask that leaves but one eye free,
To do its best in witchery,

She roved, with beating heart, around,
And waited, trembling, for the minute,
When she might try if still the sound

Of her loved 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 ;-pomegranates full
Of melting sweetness, and the pears
And the sunniest apples that Caubul
In all its thousand gardens bears,
Plantains, the golden and the green,
Malaya's nectar'd mangusteen ;
Prunes of Bokara, and sweet nuts
From the far groves of Samarcand,
And Basra dates, and apricots,

Seed of the sun, from Iran's land ;—
With rich conserve of Visna cherries,
Of orange flowers, and of those berries
That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles
Feed on in Erac's rocky dells.
All these in richest vases smile,

In baskets of pure sandal-wood,
And urns of porcelain from that isle
Sunk underneath the Indian flood,
Whence oft the lucky diver brings
Vases to grace the halls of kings.

Wines, too, of every clime and hue,
Around their liquid lustre threw ;
Amber Rosolli,-

the bright dew

From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing; 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, was blushing Melted within the goblets there!

And amply Selim quaffs of each,

And seems resolved the floods 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 blest 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,
Catching new lustre from the tide

That with his image shone beneath.

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;
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, and thus sings

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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 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.

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh
As the flower of the Amra just oped by a bee;
And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,
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, hallowed by love, Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere,

Who for wine of this earth 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, the Angel, there;—
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 sound 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!

'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words
But that deep magic in the chords
And in the lips, that gave such power
As music knew not till that hour.
At once a hundred voices said,
"It is the mask'd Arabian maid !"
While Selim, who had felt the strain
Deepest of any, and had lain

Some minutes rapt, as in a trance,
After the fairy sounds were o'er,

Too inly touch'd for utterance,

Now motion'd with his hand for more :

Fy 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
Th' acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved 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 loved 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
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then!

So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breathed 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 had'st 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.

Buti f 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!

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