And said, "No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery!

15 Thy songs were made for the pure and

free,

They shall never sound in slavery."

FAREWELL!-BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR

Farewell!-but whenever you welcome the hour

That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,

Then think of the friend who once welcom❜d it too,

And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.

5 His griefs may return, not a hope may remain

Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain,

But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw

Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you.

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up

10 To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,

Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,

My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night;

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,

And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles

15 Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay

Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,
Like him, the Sprite,
Whom maids by night

15 Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me,
But while her eyes were on me;
If once their ray
Was turn'd away,

20 Oh, winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going?
And is my proud heart growing
Too cold or too wise
For brilliant eyes

25 Again to set it glowing?
No, vain, alas! th' endeavor
From bonds so sweet to sever;
Poor Wisdom's chance
Against a glance

30 Is now as weak as ever.

With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,

Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear

As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?

5 Oh! to see it at sunset, when warm o'er the lake

Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws,

Like a bride, full of blushes, when ling 'ring to take

A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!

When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown,

10 And each hallows the hour by some rites

of its own.

And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle

of Chenars

Is broken by laughs and light echoes of

feet

20 From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet:

Or at morn, when the magic of daylight

awakes

A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks,

Hills, cupolas, fountains, call'd forth

every one

Out of darkness, as if but just born of the Sun.

25 When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with

30

the day,

From his Haram of night-flowers stealing

When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes,

And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl'd,

Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes,

Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world!

But never yet, by night or day, In dew of spring or summer's ray, 35 Did the sweet valley shine so gay As now it shines-all love and light, Visions by day and feasts by night! A happier smile illumes each brow, With quicker spread each heart uncloses,

40 And all its ecstasy, for now

45

50

The valley holds its Feast of Roses; The joyous time, when pleasures pour Profusely round and, in their shower, Hearts open, like the season's rose,

The flow 'ret of a hundred leaves, Expanding while the dew-fall flows, And every leaf its balm receives.

'Twas when the hour of evening came
Upon the lake, serene and cool,
When Day had hid his sultry flame
Behind the palms of Baramoule,
When maids began to lift their heads,
Refresh'd from their embroider'd beds,
Where they had slept the sun away,

55 And wak'd to moonlight and to play.
All were abroad-the busiest hive
On Bela's hills is less alive,
When saffron beds are full in flow'r,

Than look'd the valley in that hour.

60 A thousand restless torches play'd Through every grove and island shade; A thousand sparkling lamps were set On every dome and minaret;

And fields and pathways, far and near, 65 Were lighted by a blaze so clear,

That you could see, in wand'ring round, The smallest rose-leaf on the ground. Yet did the maids and matrons leave Their veils at home, that brilliant eve; 70 And there were glancing eyes about, And cheeks, that would not dare shine out

75

80

85

90

110

And what a wilderness of flow'rs!

It seem'd as though from all the bow'rs
And fairest fields of all the year,
The mingled spoil were scatter'd here.
The lake, too, like a garden breathes,
With the rich buds that o'er it lie,-
As if a shower of fairy wreaths

Had fall'n upon it from the sky!
And then the sound of joy:-the beat
Of tabors and of dancing feet;

The minaret-crier's chant of glee
Sung from his lighted gallery,
And answer'd by a ziraleet1

95 From neighboring Haram, wild and

100

105

sweet;

The merry laughter, echoing From gardens, where the silken swing Wafts some delighted girl above The top leaves of the orange-grove; Or, from those infant groups at play Among the tents that line the way, Flinging, unaw'd by slave or mother, Handfuls of roses at each other. Then the sounds from the lake:-the low whisp'ring in boats,

As they shoot through the moonlight; the dipping of oars;

And the wild, airy warbling that ev'rywhere floats,

Through the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores,

1 joyous chorus

I've had a dream that bodes no good
Unto the Holy Brotherhood.
I may be wrong, but I confess-

As far as it is right or lawful
5 For one, no conjurer, to guess-
It seems to me extremely awful.
Methought upon the Neva's flood
A beautiful ice palace stood,

A dome of frost-work, on the plan
10 Of that once built by Empress Anne,1
Which shone by moonlight—as the tale is—
Like an Aurora Borealis.

In this said palace, furnish'd all

And lighted as the best on land are, 15 I dreamt there was a splendid ball, Given by the Emperor Alexander,2 To entertain with all due zeal,

70

75

Scarce was the luckless strain begun,
When, glaring red, as 'twere a glance
Shot from an angry southern sun,
A light through all the chambers flam'd,
Astonishing old Father Frost,
Who, bursting into tears, exclaim'd,
"A thaw, by Jove-we're lost, we're
lost;

Run, France-a second Waterloo

Is come to drown you-sauve qui peut!'"

Why, why will monarchs caper so

In palaces without foundations?-
Instantly all was in a flow,

Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations--
Those royal arms, that look'd so nice,
80 Cut out in the resplendent ice-
Those eagles, handsomely provided

With double heads for double dealingsHow fast the globes and sceptres glided

Out of their claws on all the ceilings! 85 Proud Prussia's double bird of prey Tame as a spatchcock,2 slunk away; While-just like France herself, when she

90

Proclaims how great her naval skill isPoor Louis' drowning fleurs-de-lys Imagin'd themselves water-lilies.

And not alone rooms, ceilings, shelves, But-still more fatal executionThe Great Legitimates themselves Seem'd in a state of dissolution. 95 The indignant Czar-when just about To issue a sublime ukase,3 "Whereas all light must be kept out"Dissolv'd to nothing in its blaze. Next Prussia took his turn to melt, 100 And, while his lips illustrious felt The influence of this southern air,

60 And a fandango, 'faith, they had, At which they all set to, like mad! Never were kings (though small the expense is

Of wit among their Excellencies)

So out of all their princely senses.

65 But, ah, that dance-that Spanish dance

1 A stately Polish dance.

Louis XVIII, King of France (1814-24). A lively Spanish dance.

Some word, like "constitution"-long
Congeal'd in frosty silence there-
Came slowly thawing from his tongue.
While Louis, lapsing by degrees,

And sighing out a faint adieu
To truffles, salmis," toasted cheese
And smoking fondus," quickly grew,
Himself, into a fondu too;-

110 Or like that goodly king they make
Of sugar for a Twelfth-night cake,"
When, in some urchin's mouth, alas,
It melts into a shapeless mass!