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And Margiana to the Hyrcanian cliffs
John Milton. THE EAST.
NOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with
perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky, In color though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 'T is the clime of the East; 't is the land of the Sun, Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? O, wild as the accents of lovers' farewell, Are the hearts which they bear, and thic tales which they tell.
Lord Byron. THE POET IN THE EAST.
When Spring was in the air :
So young she seemed, and fair;
His soul was native there.
All things to him were the visible forms
Of early and precious dreams, – Familiar visions that mocked his quest
Beside the Western streams, Or gleamed in the gold of the clouds, unrolled
In the sunset's dying beams.
He looked above in the cloudless calm,
And the Sun sat on his throne; The breath of gardens, deep in balm,
Was all about him blown, And a brother to him was the princely Palm,
For he cannot live alone.
His feet went forth on the myrtled hills,
And the flowers their welcome shed;
They knew the Poet's tread,
The poppy's bonfire spread.
And, half in shade and half in sun,
The Rose sat in her bower, With a passionate thrill in her crimson heart, –
She had waited for the hour! And, like a bride's, the Poet kissed
The lips of the glorious flower.
Then the Nightingale, who sat above
In the boughs of the citron-tree,
Except in minstrelsy;
She is faithful still to me.”
And further sang the Nightingale :
“ Your bower not distant lies. I heard the sound of a Persian lute
From the jasmined window rise, And, twin-bright stars, through the lattice-bars,
I saw the Sultana's eyes.”
The Poet said: “I will here abide,
In the Sun's unclouded door;
On the lost Arcadian shore:
EHIND the veil, where depth is traced
By many a complicated line, Behind the lattice closely laced
With filigree of choice design, Behind the lofty garden-wall,
Where stranger face can ne'er surprise, — That inner world her all-in-all,
The Eastern Woman lives and dies.
Husband and children round her draw
The narrow circle where she rests; His will the single perfect law,
That scarce with choice her mind molests; Their birth and tutelage the ground
And meaning of her life on earth, She knows not elsewhere could be found
The measure of a woman's worth. If young and beautiful, she dwells
An Idol in a secret shrine, Where one high-priest alone dispels
The solitude of charms divine ;
And in his honor has her own,
Can be too much for him alone.
Within the gay kiosk reclined,
Above the scent of lemon groves,