"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!
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