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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,

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

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 Hoors, 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,

Who may know !
Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow

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

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 ;

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 : Smiling, frowning, evermore, If aught of prophecy be mine, Thou art perfect in love-lore, Thou wilt not live in vain,

Ever varying Madeline.

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I would mock thy chant anew ;

But I cannot mimic it;
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo,

Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,

With a lengthen’d loud halloo,
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o.a

A subtle, sudden flame,
By veering passion fann'd,

About thee breaks and dances;
When I would kiss thy hand,
The flush of anger'd shame

O'erflows thy calmer glances, And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown : But when I turn away, Thion, willing me to stay, Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest;

But, looking fixedly the while,
All my bounding heart entanglest

In a golden-netted smile ;
Then in madness and in bliss,
If my lips should dare to kiss
Thy taper fingers amorously,
Again thou blushest angerly ;
And o'er black brows drops down
A sudden-curved frown.



When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew

free In the silken sail of infancy, The tide of time flow'd back with me,

The forward-flowing tide of time ;
And many a sheeny summer-morn,
Adown the Tigris I was borne,
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold,
High-walled gardens green and old,
True Mussulman was I and sworn,
For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.



When cats run home and light is come,

And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,

And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round ;

Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

Anight my shallop, rustling thro'
The low and bloomed foliage, drove
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and ciova
The citron-shadows in the blue :
By garden porches on the brim,
The costly doors flung open wide,
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim,
And broider'd sofas on each side :

In sooth it was a goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.


When merry milkmaids click the latch,

And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch

Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay ;

Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.


Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard
The outlet, did I turn away
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
Adown to where the water slept.

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

Of good Haroun Alraschid.


Tuy tuwhits are lull’d, I wot,

Thy tuwhoos of yesternight,

upon the dark afloat, So took echo with delight, So took echo with delight,

That her voice untuneful grown,
Wears all day a fainter tone.

A motion from the river won
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm,
Until another night in night
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 Far off, and where the lemon grove Is rounded to as clear a lake.

In closest coverture upsprung, From the green rivage many a fall The living airs of middle night Of diamond rillets musical,

Died round the bulbul as he sung ; Thro' little crystal arches low

Not he : but something which possess'd Down from the central fountain's flow The darkness of the world, delight, Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake Life, anguish, death, immortal love, The sparkling flints

beneath the prow. Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd, A goodly place, a goodly time, Apart from place, withholding time, For it was in the golden prime

But flattering the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Of good Haroun Alraschid. Above thro' many a bowery turn Black the garden-bowers and grots A walk with vary-color'd shells Slumber'd: the solemn palms were ranged Wander'd engrain'd. On either side Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : All round about the fragrant marge 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 1 sank

Throne of the massive ore, from which In cool soft turf upon the bank, Down-droop'd, 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 inmost 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.




open breast

Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, Whilome thou camest with the morning 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 Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat

0, hither lead thy feet ! (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

loud Because they are the earliest of the year).

Over the dark dewy earth forlorn,

What time the amber morn Nor was the night thy shroud. In sweet dreams softer than unbroken Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung rest

cloud. Thou leddest by the hand thine infant

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

To the young spirit present

When first she is wed; The light of thy great presence ; and the

And like a bride of old cope 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

gold ; 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 ;

For the discovery
O strengthen me, enlighten me !
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

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 vines

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 infinity, 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,


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