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And ever when the moon was low,

And the shrill winds were up and away, | Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit: In the white curtain, to and fro,

I Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow : She saw the gusty shadow sway.

Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now But when the moon was very low, With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. And wild winds bound within their Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords cell,

Can do away that ancient lie; The shadow of the poplar fell

A gentler death shall Falsehood die, Upon her bed, across her brow.

Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words.
She only said, “The night is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said ;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary, Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch,
I would that I were dead !'

Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need,

Thy kingly intellect shall feed, All day within the dreamy house,

Until she be an athlete bold, The doors upon their hinges creak’d; And weary with a finger's touch The blue fly sung in the pane ; the mouse Those writhed limbs of lightning speed; Behind the mouldering wainscot Like that strange angel which of old, shriek'd,

Until the breaking of the light, Or from the crevice peer'd about. Wrestled with wandering Israel,

Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, Past Yabbok brook the livelong night,

Old footsteps trod the upper floors, | And heaven's mazed signs stood still Old voices called her from without. In the dim tract of Penuel.

She only said, “My life is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said ;
She said, “I am aweary, a weary,

I would that I were dead !”

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,

Thou art not steep'd in golden languors, The slow clock ticking, and the sound No tranced summer calm is thine, Which to the wooing wind aloof

Ever varying Madeline. The poplar made, did all confound

Thro' light and shadow thou dost range, Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour! Sudden glances, sweet and strange,

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Delicious spites and darling angers,
Athwart the chambers, and the day

And airy forms of flitting change. Was sloping toward his western bower.

Then, said she, “I am very dreary,
He will not come,” she said ;

" | Smiling, frowning, evermore, She wept, “I am aweary, aweary,

Thou art perfect in love-lore.
O God, that I were dead!”

Revealings deep and clear are thine
Of wealthy smiles : but who inay know
Whether smile or frown be fleeter ?

Whether smile or frown be sweeter,
TO —

Who may know? 1.

Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow

Light-glooming over eyes divine, CLEAR-HEADED friend, whose joyful Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine, scorn,

Ever varying Madeline. Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain Thy smile and frown are not aloof

The knots that tangle human creeds, From one another, The wounding cords that bind and Each to each is dearest brother ; strain

Hues of the silken sheeny woof
The heart until it bleeds,

Momently shot into each other. Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn

All the mystery is thine ;
Roof not a glance so keen as thine : 1 Smiling, frowning, evermore,

If aught of prophecy be inine, Thou art perfect in love-lore,
Thou wilt not live in vain,

Ever varying Madeline.

A subtle, sudden flame,

I would mock thy chant anew;
By veering passion fann'd,

But I cannot mimic it; About thee breaks and dances ; Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, When I would kiss thy hand,

Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,
The flush of anger'd shame

Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,
O'erflows thy calmer glances,

With a lengthen'd loud halloo, And o'er black brows drops down

Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwh00-0-0. A sudden-curved frown: But when I turn away, Thon, willing me to stay,

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest;
But, looking fixedly the while,

All my bounding heart entanglest
In a golden-netted smile ;

When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew Then in madness and in bliss,

free If my lips should dare to kiss

In the silken sail of infancy, Thy taper fingers amorously,

The tide of time flow'd back with me, Again thou blushest angerly ;

The forward-flowing tide of time ; And o'er black brows drops down

And many a sheeny summer-morn,
A sudden-curved frown.

Adown the Tigris I was borne,
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold,

High-walled gardens green and old;

True Mussulman was 1 and sworn,
For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.
WHEX cats run home and light is come,

And dew is cold upon the ground, Anight my shallop, rustling thro' And the far-off stream is dumb,

The low and bloomed foliage, drove And the whirring sail goes round, The fragrant, glistening deeps, and ciova And the whirring sail goes round; The citron-shadows in the blue : Alone and warming his five wits, By garden porches on the brim, The white owl in the belfry sits. | The costly doors flung open wide,

Gold glittering thro’ lamplight dim,

And broider'd sofas on each side : When merry milkmaids click the latch,

In sooth it was a goodly time, And rarely smells the new-mown hay,

For it was in the golden prime
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch

Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay ;

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard
Alone and warming his five wits, The outlet, did I turn away
The white owl in the belfry sits.

The boat-head down a broad canal
From the main river sluiced, where all

The sloping of the moon-lit sward

Was damask-work, and deep inlay

Of braided blooms unmown, which crept TO THE SAME.

Adown to where the water slept.

A goodly place, a goodly time,

For it was in the golden prime
Tuy tuwhits are lull’d, I wot,

Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Thy tuwhoos of yesternight,
Which upon the dark afloat,

A motion from the river won
So took echo with delight,

Ridged the smooth level, bearing on So took echo with delight,

My shallop thro' the star-strown calm, That her voice untuneful grown, Until another night in night Wears all day a fainter tone. I enter'd, from the clearer light,


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Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm, From fluted vase, and brazen urn Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb In order, eastern flowers large, Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the Some dropping low their crimson bells dome

Half-closed, and others studded wide Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time, With disks and tiars, fed the time For it was in the golden prime

With odor in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Still onward ; and the clear canal
Is rounded to as clear a lake.
From the green rivage many a fall
Of diamond rillets musical,
Thro’ little crystal arches low
Down from the central fountain's flow
Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake
The sparkling flints beneath the prow.

A goodly place, a goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Far off, and where the lemon grove
In closest coverture upsprung,
The living airs of middle night
Died round the bulbul as he sung;
Not he : but something which possess'd
The darkness of the world, delight,
Life, anguish, death, immortal love,
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd,

Apart from place, withholding time,
But flattering the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Above thro' many a bowery turn
A walk with vary-color'd shells
Wander'd engrain'd. On either side
All round about the fragrant marge

Black the garden-bowers and grots Slumber'd: the solemn palms were ranged | Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : | A sudden splendor from behind

Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green, | Then stole I up, and trancedly
And, flowing rapidly between

Gazed on the Persian girl alone,
Their interspaces, counterchanged Serene with argent-lidded eyes
The level lake with diamond-plots Amorous, and lashes like to rays

Of dark and bright. A lovely time, of darkness, and a brow of pearl
For it was in the golden prime Tressed with redolent ebony,
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

In many a dark delicious curl,

Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead,

The sweetest lady of the time, Distinct with vivid stars inlaid,

Well worthy of the golden prime
Grew darker from that under-flame :

Of good Haroun Alraschid.
So, leaping lightly from the boat,
With silver anchor left afloat,

Six columns, three on either side,
In marvel whence that glory came Pure silver, underpropt a rich
Upon me, as in sleep I sank

Throne of the massive ore, from which In cool soft turf upon the bank,

Down-droopid, in many a floating fold, Entranced with that place and time, Engarlanded and diaper'd So worthy of the golden prime With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold, Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd

With merriment of kingly pride, Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — Sole star of all that place and time, A realm of pleasance, many a mound,

I saw him — in his golden prime, And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn

Full of the city's stilly sound,
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round
The stately cedar, tamarisks,

Thick rosaries of scented thorn,
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks
Graven with emblems of the time,
In honor of the golden prime

Thou who stealest fire,
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

From the fountains of the past,

To glorify the present ; 0, haste, With dazed vision unawares

Visit my low desire ! From the long alley's latticed shade

Strengthen me, enlighten me! Emerged, I came upon the great

I faint in this obscurity,
Pavilion of the Caliphat.

Thou dewy dawn of memory.
Right to the carven cedarn doors,
Flung inward over spangled floors,
Broad-based flights of marble stairs

Come not as thou camest of late,
Ran up with golden balustrade,

Flinging the gloom of yesternight After the fashion of the time,

| On the white day ; but robed in soften'd And humor of the golden prime

light Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Of orient state.

Whilome thou camest with the morning The fourscore windows all alight

mist, As with the quintessence of flame,

Even as a maid, whose stately brow A million tapers flaring bright

The dew-impearled winds of dawn have From twisted silvers look'd to shame

kiss'd, The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd

When she, as thou, Upon the mooned domes aloof

Stays on her floating locks the lovely In in most Bagdat, till there seem'd

freight Hundreds of crescents on the roof Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots Of night new-risen, that marvellous | Of orient green, giving safe pledge of time

fruits, To celebrate the golden prime Which in wintertide shall star

Of good Haroun Alraschid. | The black earth with brilliance rare.



1 Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, Whilome thou camest with the morning Drawing into his narrow

Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, mist,

In every elbow and turn,
And with the evening cloud,

The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland. Showering thy gleaned wealth into my

O, hither lead thy feet! open breast

Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled wind

folds. Never grow sere,

Upon the ridged wolds, When rooted in the garden of the mind.) When the first matin-song hath waken'd Because they are the earliest of the


Over the dark dewy earth forlorn,
Nor was the night thy shroud.

What time the amber morn In sweet dreams softer than unbroken Forth gushes froin beneath a low-hung rest

cloud. Thou leddest by the hand thine infant

V. Hope. The eddying of her garments caught from Large dowries doth the raptured eye thee

To the young spirit present The light of thy great presence; and the

When first she is wed; cope

And like a bride of old Of the half-attain'd futurity,

In triumph led, Tho' deep not fathomless,

With music and sweet showers Was cloven with the million stars which

Of festal flowers, tremble

Unto the dwelling she must sway. O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, Small thought was there of life's distress :

In setting round thy first experiment For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could

With royal frame-work of wrought dull Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and Needs must thou dearly love thy first beautiful :

essay, Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres. | And foremost in thy various gallery Listening the lordly music flowing from

Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls The illimitable years.

Upon the storied walls ; O strengthen me, enlighten me !

For the discovery I faint in this obscurity,

And newness of thine art so pleased thee, Thou dewy dawn of memory.

That all which thou hast drawn of fairest

Or boldest since, but lightly weighs

With thee unto the love thou bearest IV.

The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, Come forth, I charge thee, arise, Ever retiring thou dost gaze Thou of the many tongues, the myriad On the prime labor of thine early days : eyes !

No matter what the sketch might be ; Thou comest not with shows of flaunting Whether the high field on the bushless

Unto mine inner eye,

Or even a sand-built ridge
Divinest Memory !

Of heaped hills that mound the sea, Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall Overblown with murmurs harsh, Which ever sounds and shines

Or even a lowly cottage whence we see A pillar of white light upon the wall Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enorOf purple cliffs, aloof descried :

mous marsh, Come from the woods that belt the gray Where from the frequent bridge, hill-side,

Like emblems of intinity, The seven elms, the poplars four The trenched waters run from sky to That stand beside my father's door,

sky; And chiefly from the brook that loves Or a garden bower'd close To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, With plaited alleys of the trailing rose,

gold ;


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