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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-0-0.

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,
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm,
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they

clomb Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the 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,
Thru' little crystal arches low
Down from the central fountain's flow
Tall'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.

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead,

Distinct with vivid stars inlaid,
Grew darker from that under-Hame:
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.

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
Froin fluted vase, and brazen urn
In order, eastern flowers large,
Some dropping low their crimson bells
Tlalf-closed, and others studded wide

With disks and tiars, fed the time
With odour in the gulden 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.

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,
Lise, anguish, death, immortal love,
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress’d,

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

Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Black the garden-bowers and grots
Slumber'd : the solemn palms were

Above, unwoo'd of summer wind :
A sudden splendour from behind
Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-

And, flowing rapidly between
Their interspaces, counterchanged
The level lake with diamond-plots

Of dark and bright. A lovely time,
For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

The fourscore windows all alight
As with the quintessence of flame,
A million tapers faring 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


Tressed with redolent ebony,
In many a dark delicious curl,
Flowing beneath her rose-bued zone;

The sweetest lady of the time,
Well worthy of the golden prime

Or good Haroun Alraschid.

open breast

Six columns, three on either side,
Pure silver, underpropt a rich
Throne of the massive ore, from which
Down-droup'd, in many a floating fold,
Engarlanded and diaper'd
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold.
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirrid
With merriment of kingly pride,

Sole star of all that place and time,
I saw him — in his golden prime,


Whilome thou camest with the morning


And with the evening cloud, Showering thy gleaned wealth into my (Those peerless Powers which in the

rudest wind

Never grow sere, When rooted in the garden of the mind, Because they are the earliest of the


Nor was the night thy shroud. In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest Thou leddest by the hand thine infant

Hope. The eddying of her garments caught from

thee The light of thy great presence; and the

Of the half-attain'd futurity,

Tho' deep not fathomless,
Was cloven with the million stars which

tremble O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. Small thought was there of life's distress; For sure she deem'd no mist of earth

could dull Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and

beautiful : Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres, Listening the lordly music flowing from

The illimitable years.
O strengthen me, enlighten me!
I faint in this obscurity,
Thou dewy dawn of memory.

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Come not as thou camest of late, Flinging the gloom of yesternight On the white day; but robed in soften'd


Of orient state. Whilome thou camest with the morning

mist, Even as a maid, whose stately brow The dew-impearled winds of dawn have


When she, as thou, Stays on her floating locks the lovely

freight Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, Which in wintertide shall star The black earth with brilliance rare.

Come forth, I charge thee, arise,
Thou of the many tongues, the myriad

eyes! Thou comest not with shows of flaunting


Unto mine inner eye,

Divinest Memory! Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall Which ever sounds and shines

A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : Come from the woods that belt the gray


The seven elms, the poplars four
That stand beside my father's door,
And chiefly from the brook that loves
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand,
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves,
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn,

In every elbow and turn,
The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland,

O! hither lead thy feet ! Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled


Upon the ridged wolds, When the first matin-song hath waken'd

loud Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, What time the amber morn Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung


Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enor.

mous 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 alter 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.



Large dowries doth the raptured eye
To the young spirit present
When first she is wed;

And like a bride of old
In triumph led,

With music and sweet showers

Of festal fowers, Unto the dwelling she must sway. Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, In setting round thy first experiment With royal frame-work of wrought

gold; Needs must thou dearly love thy first

And foremost in thy various gallery

Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls
Upon the storied walls;

For the discovery
And newness of thine art so pleased thee,
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, Ever retiring thou dost gaze On the prime labour of thine carly days: No matter what the sketch might be; Whether the high field on the bushless

Pike, Or even a sand-built ridge Of heaped hills that mound the sea, Overblown with murmurs harsh, Or even a lowly cottage whence we see

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 In the walks; Earthward he boweth the heavy

Of the mouldering flowers :

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i the earth so

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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