"Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far

As the universe spreads its flaming wall: Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years,

One minute of Heaven is worth them all!" The glorious Angel, who was keeping The gates of Light, beheld her weeping! And, as he nearer drew and listened To her sad song, a tear-drop glistened Within his eyelids, like the spray

From Eden's fountain, when it lies
On the blue flower, which - Bramins say -
Blooms nowhere but in Paradise!
"Nymph of a fair but erring line!"
Gently he said "One hope is thine,
'Tis written in the Book of Fate,
The Peri yet may be forgiven
Who brings to this Eternal gate

The Gift that is most dear to Heaven!
Go seek it, and redeem thy sin
'Tis sweet to let the Pardoned in!

"

Cheered by this hope she bends her thither; -
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of Even
In the rich West begun to wither;
When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild-flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel-flies,

That fluttered round the jasmine stems,
Like wingéd flowers or flying gems: —
And, near the boy, who tired with play,
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount

From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount
Impatient fling him down to drink.
Then swift his haggard brow he turned
To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath day-beam burned
Upon a brow more fierce than that,
Sullenly fierce- a mixture dire,

Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire!

Yet tranquil now that man of crime,
(As if the balmy evening time
Softened his spirit) looked and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play; -
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance

Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches, that have burnt all night
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.

But hark! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,

From Syria's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south
Lisping the eternal name of God

From purity's own cherub mouth,

And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,

Like a stray babe of Paradise,

Just lighted on that flowery plain,

And seeking for its home again!

O, 'twas a sight that Heaven - that Child –

A scene, which might have well beguiled

E'en haughty Eblis of a sigh

For glories lost and peace gone by!

And how felt he, the wretched Man
Reclining there — while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace!
"There was a time," he said, in mild,
Heart-humbled tones "thou blesséd child!

When young and haply pure as thou,

I looked and prayed like thee - but now"
He hung his head - each nobler aim

And hope and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood's hour, that instant came
Fresh o'er him, and he wept - he wept!

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!

In whose benign, redeeming flow

Is felt the first, the only sense

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.

"There's a drop," said the Peri, "that down from the moon

Falls through the withering airs of June
Upon Egypt's land, of so healing a power,
So balmy a virtue, that e'en in the hour
That drop descends, contagion dies,
And health reanimates earth and skies! -
O, is it not thus, thou man of sin,

The precious tears of repentance fall?
Though foul thy fiery plagues within,

One heavenly drop hath dispelled them all!" And now - behold him kneeling there

By the child's side, in humble prayer,
While the same sunbeam shines upon

The guilty and the guiltless one,

And hymns of joy proclaim through Heaven
The Triumph of a soul Forgiven!

'Twas when the golden orb had set,

While on their knees they lingered yet,
There fell a light, more lovely far

Than ever came from sun or star,
Upon the tear that, warm and meek,
Dewed that repentant sinner's cheek:
To mortal eye this light might seem
A northern flash or meteor beam
But well the enraptured Peri knew
'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw
From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear
Her harbinger of glory near!

My feast is now of the Tooba Tree,

Whose scent is the breath of Eternity!

"Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone
In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief, -
O! what are the brightest that e'er have blown,
To the lote-tree, springing by Alla's Throne,

Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf!
Joy, joy forever! my task is done-

The Gates are passed, and Heaven is won!"

279. 'TIS The Last Rose of Summer.

"Tis the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,

No rose-bud, is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,.
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away!

When true hearts lie withered,

And fond ones are flown,

O! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

280. FORGET NOT THE FIELD.

Forget not the field where they perished,
The truest, the last of the brave,

All gone and the bright hope we cherished

Gone with them, and quenched in their grave!

O, could we from death but recover

Those hearts as they bounded before,
In the face of high Heaven to fight over
That combat for freedom once more; ·

Could the chain for an instant be riven
Which Tyranny flung round us then,
No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven,
To let Tyranny bind it again!

But 'tis past and, though blazoned in story
The name of our victor may be,

Accurst is the march of that glory

Which treads o'er the hearts of the free.

Far dearer the grave or the prison,
Illumed by one patriot name,

Than the trophies of all, who have risen
On Liberty's ruins to fame.

281. THOSE EVENING BElls.

Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are past away!
And many a heart, that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,

And hears no more those evening bells!

And so 'twill be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,

While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

282. THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, Lord! that arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,

E'en more than music, breathes of Thee!