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Far murmurs of the summer trees,
And voices low of dreamy seas,
Around thee sink and swell!
Farewell, Estelle! farewell!

And ever sweet, by thee be heard
The hum of bee, and song of bird,
And sound of holy bell!
Farewell, Estelle! farewell!

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

Born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 1836

WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN.

WHEN the Sultan Shah-Zaman

Goes to the city Ispahan,

Even before he gets so far

As the place where the cluster'd palm-trees are,
At the last of the thirty palace-gates,

The pet of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom,
Orders a feast in his favourite room,-
Glittering squares of colour'd ice,

Sweeten'd with syrup, tinctured with spice,
Creams, and cordials, and sugar'd dates,

Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces,

Limes, and citrons, and apricots,

And wines that are known to Eastern princes;

And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots

Of spiced meats and costliest fish

And all that the curious palate could wish,

Pass in and out of the cedarn doors:

Scatter'd over mosaic floors

Are anemones, myrtles, and violets,
And a musical fountain throws its jets
Of a hundred colours into the air.
The dusk Sultana loosens her hair,
And stains with the henna-plant the tips
Of her pearly nails, and bites her lips
Till they bloom again,-but, alas, that rose

Not for the Sultan buds and blows!
Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman
When he goes to the city Ispahan.

Then at a wave of her sunny hand,
The dancing-girls of Samarcand
Float in like mists from Fairy-land!
And to the low voluptuous swoons
Of music rise and fall the moons
Of their full brown bosoms. Orient blood
Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes:
And there, in this Eastern Paradise,
Fill'd with the fumes of sandal-wood,
And Khoten musk, and aloes and myrrh,
Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan,
Sipping the wines of Astrakhan;
And her Arab lover sits with her.
That's when the Sultan Shah-Zaman
Goes to the city Ispahan.

Now, when I see an extra light
Flaming, flickering on the night,
From my neighbour's casement opposite,
I know as well as I know to pray,
I know as well as a tongue can say,
That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman
Has gone to the city Ispahan.

PALABRAS CARIÑOSAS.

GOOD-NIGHT! I have to say good-night
To such a host of peerless things!
Good-night unto that fragile hand
All queenly with its weight of rings,
Good-night to fond up-lifted eyes,
Good-night to chestnut braids of hair,
Good-night unto the perfect mouth
And all the sweetness nestled there,-
The snowy hand detains me, then
I'll have to say Good-night again!

But there will come a time, my love!
When, if I read our stars aright,

I shall not linger by this porch
With my adieus. Till then, good-night!
You wish the time were now?

You do not blush to wish it so?

And I.

You would have blush'd yourself to death To own so much a year ago.

What, both these snowy hands! ah, then, I'll have to say Good-night again!

TIGER-LILIES.

I LIKE not lady-slippers,
Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms,
Nor yet the flaky roses,

Red, or white as snow;

I like the chaliced lilies,
The heavy Eastern lilies,
The gorgeous tiger-lilies,

That in our garden grow!

For they are tall and slender;
Their mouths are dash'd with carmine,
And, when the wind sweeps by them,
On their emerald stalks

They bend so proud and graceful,-
They are Circassian women,
The favourites of the Sultan,
Adown our garden walks!

And when the rain is falling,
I sit beside the window

And watch them glow and glisten,-
How they burn and glow!

O for the burning lilies,
The tender Eastern lilies,
The gorgeous tiger-lilies,

That in our garden grow!

WILLIAM WINTER.

Born at Gloucester, Mass: 1836

LETHE.

(A Song of Rest.)

SWEET oblivion! blood of grape!
Let me take thy hue and shape;
Flood this weary heart of mine;
Change it into ruddy wine;
Through my veins, with golden glow,
Fiery spirit! flash and flow;

Deify this clod of clay,

And waft my willing soul away.

Sick and sad my fancies are,-
Tired of peace and tired of war;
Joke of jester, prank of clown
Weigh my heavy eyelids down;
All philosophies are drear;
Music's jargon in my ear;
Endless tides of empty talk
Bubble round me where I walk;
I am deafen'd by the din
That the world is wrangling in;
I am tired of woe and bliss;
I am sick of all that is!

God of sunrise! purple wine!
Let me lose my soul in thine;
Close my eyes and stop my ears
To all a mortal sees and hears :-
Roll of drums and clash of swords,
Fretful snarl of angry words,

Church and state and bond and free,

Party, creed, and policy,

Tattle, prattle, laugh, and groan,
Crozier, sceptre, flag, and throne,
Foolish press, and grand debate
Which of moles is small or great,

Who shall be pray'd for, who shall pray,
And what the foreign critics say.
All avails not; might is right;

Life is vapid-day is night.

Sun of rubies! fiery wine!
Burn my being into thine:
So my dream of death shall bless
Memory with forgetfulness.
No more weary, wasting thought
On a past so folly-fraught!
No more dreams of love-lit eyes,
And silken hair, and tender sighs,
And kisses, wild and sweet, that shake
The frame of being !-
!-poor mistake!
Nor that other, just as poor,—
Toil for praise of sage or boor;
Fire, that burnishes a crown,
Fire, that burns a kingdom down,
Fire, that ravages his breast
Who takes ambition for his guest!—
But at last, instead of these,
Sunset cloud, and evening breeze,
Holy starlight shining dim,
Organ wail, and vesper hymn,
Cypress wreath, and asphodels,
Gentle toll of distant bells,—
All that makes the sleeper blest,
In a bed of endless rest.

When this farce of life is o'er,
Are we fretted any more?
Do they rest, I'd like to know,
Under grass or under snow,
Who have gone that quiet way
You and I must go, some day?
If they do, it seems to me
Happy were it thus to be

Sleeping where the blackberries grow,
And the bramble-roses blow,

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