The dream of the injured, patient mind, Is found in the bruised and wounded rind To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. No sooner was the flowery crown Placed on her head, than sleep came down, Like the first air of morning creeping Into those wreathy, Red-Sea shells, Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping;—† * The myrrh country. "This idea (of deities living in shells) was not unknown to the Greeks, who represent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in shells on the shores of the Red Sea."WILFORD. And now a Spirit form'd, 'twould seem, And such a sound is in the air Of sweetness, when he waves his wings, From CHINDARA's warbling fount I come, Where in music, morn and night, I dwell;- And Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song! From my fairy home, And if there's a magic in Music's strain, Of that moonlight wreath, Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again. "A fabulous fountain, where instruments are said to be constantly playing."-RICHARDSON. For mine is the lay that lightly floats, Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway From soul to soul, the wishes of love, grove. 'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure * The past, the present, and future of pleasure; With the blissful tone that's still in the ear; * "The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to different places, is a great disseminator of this valuable tree."-See BROWN's Illustr Tab. 19. And Hope from a heavenly note flies on To a note more heavenly still that is near! The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me, As his own white plume, that high amid death Through the field has shone-yet moves with a breath. And, oh how the eyes of Beauty glisten, When Music has reach'd her inward soul, From my fairy home, And if there's a magic in Music's strain,' Of that moonlight wreath, Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again. 'Tis dawn-at least that earlier dawn, Whose glimpses are again withdrawn, * "They have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim, and the Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real day-break.”—Waring. As if the morn had waked, and then And NOURMAHAL is up, and trying The wonders of her lute, whose strings— Oh bliss!—now murmur like the sighing From that ambrosial Spirit's wings! And then, her voice-'tis more than human— Never, till now, had it been given To lips of any mortal woman To utter notes so fresh from Heaven; Sweet as the breath of angel sighs, When angel sighs are most divine.— “Oh! let it last till night,” she cries, "And he is more than ever mine. And hourly she renews the lay, So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness Should, ere the evening, fade away, For things so heavenly have such fleetness! Till rapt she dwells on every string, In love with her own wondrous song. |