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Their edge is but dullish, it must be confess'd,
And their temper, like E nb'r—h's, none of the best, [upon trying,
But you'll find them good hard-working Tools
Wer’t but for their brass, they are well worth the buying; [screens,
They're famous for making blinds, sliders, and
And they're, some of them, excellent turning machines!
The first Tool I’ll put up (they call it a Chancellor)
Come, where's the next Tool?---Oh! 'tis here in a
The next Tool I’ll set up has hardly had hansel or
AZIM VISITS THE HARAM OF MOKANNLM.
Now,through the Haram chambers, moving lights And busy shapes proclaim the toilet's rites;– From room to room the ready handmaids hie, Some skill'd to wreath the turban tastefully, Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade, O'er the warm blushes of the youthful maid, Who, if between the folds but one eye shone, Like Seba's queen could vanquish with that one:— While some bring leaves of Henna, to imbue
The fingers' ends with a bright roseate hue,
Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls. Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls Offragrant waters, gushing with cool sound From many a jasper fount, is heard around, Young Azim roams bewilder'd,—nor can gues What means this maze of light and lonelines. Here, the way leads, o'er tesselated floors Or mats of Cairo, through long corridors, Where, rang'd in cassolets and silver urns, Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns; And spicy rods, such as illume at night The bowers of Tibet, send forth odorous light. Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the road For some pure spirit to its blest abode — And here, at once, the glittering saloon Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as nor:; Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays High as th' enamell'd cupola, which towers All rich with Arabesques of gold and flowers: And the mosaic floor beneath shines through The sprinkling of that sountain's silvery dew, Like the wet, glistening shells, of every dye, That on the margin of the Red Sea lie.
Here too he traces the kind visitings
Of woman's love in those fair, living things
While, on the other, lattic'd lightly in With odoriferous woods of Comorin, .ach brilliant bird that wings the air is seen;– jay, sparkling loories, such as gleam between The crimson blossoms of the coral tree n the warm isles of India's sunny sea: Tecca's blue sacred pigeon, and the thrush )f Hindostan, whose holy warblings gush, at evening, from the tall pagoda's top;— 'hose golden birds that, in the spice time, drop bout the gardens, drunk with that sweet food Whose scent hath lur'd them o'er the summer flood; ind those that under Araby's soft sun uild their high nests of budding cinnamon 3– n short, all rare and beauteous things, that fly hrough the pure element, here calmly lie leeping in light, like the green birds that dwell 1 Eden's radiant fields of asphodel!
Scarce had this feeling pass'd, when sparkling he gently open'd curtains of light blue [through hat veil'd the breezy casement, countless eyes, eeping like stars through the blue evening skies, ook'd laughing in, as if to mock the pair hat sat so still and melancholy thereind now the curtains fly apart, and in rom the cool air, mid showers of jessamine Which those without fling after them in play, 'wo lightsome maidens spring, lightsome as they Who live in the air on odours, and around he bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground, ‘hase one another, in a varying dance )f mirth and languor, coyness and advance, Too eloquently like love's warm pursuit:— While she, who sang so gently to the lute Her dream of home, steals timidly away, shrinking as violets do in summer's ray3ut takes with her from Azim's heart that sigh We sometimes give to forms that pass us by in the world's crowd, too lovely to remain, Creatures of light we never see again!
Around the white necks of the nymphs who danc'd Hung carcanets of orient gems, that glanc'd More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering o'er The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore; While from their long, dark tresses, in a fall Of curls descending, bells as musical As those that, ou the golden-shafted trees Of Eden, shake in the eternal breeze, Rang round their steps, at every bound more sweet, As 'twere th' extatic language of their feet! At length the chase was o'er, and they stood wreath'd Within each other's arms; while soft there breath'd Through the cool casement, mingled with the sighs Of moonlight flowers, music that seem'd to rise From some still lake, so liquidly it rose; And, as it swell'd again at each faint close, The ear could track through all that maze of chords, And youngsweet voices,these impassion'd words:–
A Spirit there is, whose fragrant sigh |s burning now through earth and air;
Where cheeks are blushing, the Spirit is nigh, Where lips are meeting, the Spirit is there !
His breath is the soul of flowers like these,
Blue water-lilies, when the breeze
Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power!
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,
By the fair and brave,
Like the sun and wave,
By the tear that shows
As the rain-drop flows
By the first love-beat
By the bliss to meet,
By all that thou hast
Which—oh ; could it last,
We call thee hither, entrancing Power!
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,
Impatient of a scene, whose luxuries stole, Spite of himself, too deep into his soul, And where, midst all that the young heartloves most, Flowers, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost, The youth had started up, and turn'd away From the light nymphs and their luxurious lay, To muse upon the pictures that hung round,Bright images, that spoke without a sound, And views, like vistas into fairy ground. But here again new spells came o'er his sense;— All that the pencil's mute omnipotence Could call up into life, of soft and fair, Of fond and passionate, was glowing there; Nor yet too warm, but touch'd with that fine art Which paints of pleasure but the purer part; Which knows ev'n beauty when half-veil'd is best, Like her own radiant planet of the west, Whose orb when half retir'd looks loveliest' There hung the history of the Genii-king, Trac'd through each gay, voluptuous wandering With her from Saba's bowers, in whose bright eyes He read that to be blest is to be wise ;Here fond Zuleika woos with open arms The Hebrew boy, who flies from her young charms, Yet, flying, turns to gaze, and, half undone, wishes that Heav'n and she could both be won! And here Mohammed, born for love and guile.
Forgets the Koran in his Mary's smile;— Then beckons some kind angel from above With a new text to consecrate their love!
MOKANNA IN BATTLE. Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day—[way! They clash—they strive—the Caliph's troops give Mokanna's self plucks the black banner down, And now the Orient World's imperial crown Is just within his grasp-when, hark, that shout! Some hand hath check"d the flying Moslems’ rout, And now they turn—they rally—at their head A warrior (like those angel youths, who led, In glorious panoply of heav'n's own mail, The Champions of the Faith through Beder's vale) Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives, Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and drives At once the multitudinous torrent back, While hope and courage kindle in his track, And, at each step, his bloody salchion makes Terrible vistas through which victory breaks! In vain Mokanna, midst the general flight, Stands, like the red moon, on some stormy night, Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by, Leave only her unshaken in the sky!— In vain he yells his desperate curses out, Deals death promiscuously to all about, To foes that charge and coward friends that fly, And seems of all the Great Arch-enemy! The panic spreads—“a miracle!” throughout The Moslem ranks, “a miracle!” they shout, All gazing on that youth, whose coming seems A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams; And every sword, true as o'er billows dim The needle tracks the load-star, following him!
Right tow’rds Mokanna now he cleaves his path, Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath He bears from Heav'n withheld its awful burst From weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst, To break o'er him, the mightiest and the worst! But vain his speed---though, in that hour of blood, Had all God's seraphs round Mokanna stood, With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall, Mokanna's soul would have defied them all;--Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong For human force, hurries ev'n him along; In vain he struggles mid the wedg'd array Of flying thousands,---he is borne away; And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows In this forc'd flight is---murdering, as he goes! As a grim tiger, whom the torrent's might Surprizes in some parch'd ravine at night, Turns, ev’n in drowning, on the wretched flocks Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks, And, to the last, devouring on his way, Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay!
One morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood, disconsolate;
And as she listen'd to the springs
“How happy,” exclaim'd this child of air,
“Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere,
“Go, wing thy flight from star to star,
The glorious angel, who was keeping
Rapidly as comets run
Just then beneath some orange trees,
Df one who, at this silent hour,
Deserted youth! one thought alone *
But see, -who yonder comes by stealth,
Nay, turn not from me that dear face---
“Sleep,” said the Peri, as softly she stole
Thus saying, from her lips she spread
But morn is blushing in the sky;
But ah! ev'n Peri's hopes are vain--Again the Fates forbade, again