But, looking fixedly the while, All my bounden 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 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.
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.
THY tuwhits are lull'd, I wot, Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, Which 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.
I would mock thy chaunt 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-o.
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE
ARABIAN NIGHTS.
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.
Anight my shallop, rustling thro' The low and bloomed foliage, drove The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove 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.
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS.
Of hollow boughs. A goodly time, For it was in the golden prime 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, seemed 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.
Above thro' many a bowery turn A walk with vary-colour'd shells Wander'd engrain'd. On either side All round about the fragrant marge From fluted vase, and brazen urn In order, eastern flowers large, Some dropping low their crimson bells Half-closed, and others studded wide With disks and tiars, fed the time With odour 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.
Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, Grew darker from that under-flame: So, leaping lightly from the boat, With silver anchor left afloat, In marvel whence that glory came Upon me, as in sleep I sank In cool soft turf upon the bank, Entranced with that place and time, So worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Thence thro' the garden I was drawn - A realm of pleasance, many a mound, 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 honour of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. With dazed vision unawares From the long alley's latticed shade Emerged, I came upon the great Pavilion of the Caliphat.
Right to the carven cedarn doors, Flung inward over spangled floors, Broad-based flights of marble stairs Ran up with golden balustrade,
After the fashion of the time, And humour of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.
The fourscore windows all alight As with the quintessence of flame, A million tapers flaring bright From twisted silvers look'd to shame The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd Upon the mooned domes aloof In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd Hundreds of crescents on the roof Of night new-risen, that marvellous time To celebrate the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Then stole I up, and trancedly Gazed on the Persian girl alone, Serene with argent-lidded eyes Amorous, and lashes like to rays Of darkness, and a brow of pearl
Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsh,
Where from the frequent bridge, Like emblems of infinity,
The trenched waters run from sky to sky; Or a garden bower'd close
With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, Or opening upon level plots
Of crowned lilies, standing near Purple-spiked lavender: Whither in after life retired From brawling storms, From weary wind,
With youthful fancy re-inspired,
We may hold converse with all forms Of the many-sided mind,
And those whom passion hath not blinded, Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded.
My friend, with you to live alone, Were how much better than to own A crown, a sceptre, and a throne!
O strengthen me, enlighten me! I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory.
A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: To himself he talks;
For at eventide, listening earnestly, At his work you may hear him sob and sigh
Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks
Of the mouldering flowers:
Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.
The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, As a sick man's room when he taketh
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