And Margiana to the Hyrcanian cliffs
Of Caucasus, and dark Iberian dales;
From Atropatia and the neigliboring plains
Of Adiabene, Media, and the south
Of Susiana, to Balsara's haven.
He saw them in their forms of battle ranged,
How quick they wheeled, and flying behind them shot
Sharp sleet of arrowy showers against the face
Of their pursuers, and overcame by flight:
The field all iron cast a gleaming brown;
Nor wanted clouds of foot, nor on each horn
Cuirassiers all in steel for standing fight,
Chariots, or elephants indorsed with towers
Of archers; nor of laboring pioneers
A multitude, with spades and axes armed
To lay hills plain, fell woods, or valleys fill,
Or where plain was raise hill, or overlay
With bridges rivers proud, as with a yoke;
Mules after these, camels and dromedaries,
And wagons, fraught with útensils of war.
Such forces met not, nor so wide a camp,
When Agrican with all his northern powers
Besieged Albracca, as romances tell,
The city of Gallaphrone, from thence to win
The fairest of her sex, Angelica,
His daughter, sought by many prowest knights,
Both Paynim and the peers of Charlemain.
Such and so numerous was their chivalry.

John Milton. THE EAST.

KNOW

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.

THE
THE Poet came to the Land of the East,

When Spring was in the air :
The Earth was dressed for a wedding feast,

So young she seemed, and fair;
And the Poet knew the Land of the East,

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;
The meads of milk-white asphodel

They knew the Poet's tread,
And far and wide, in a scarlet tide,

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,
Sang: “We are no rivals, brother mine,

Except in minstrelsy;
For the rose you kissed with the kiss of love,

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;
Here are the wells of all delight

On the lost Arcadian shore:
Here is the light on sea and land,
And the dream deceives no more.”

Bayard Taylor.

THE HAREEM.

BEHIND

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 happiness she lives,

And in his honor has her own,
And dreams not that the love she gives

Can be too much for him alone.

Within the gay kiosk reclined,

Above the scent of lemon groves,