CHEERED by this hope she bends her thither;-
'Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of Even
In the rich West begun to wither,-
When, o'er the vale of BALBEC winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel-flies,
That fluttered round the jasmine stems,
Like winged flowers or flying gems:-
And, near the boy, who tired with play,
Now nestling mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount,
From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount
Impatient fling him down to drink. Then swift his haggard brow he turned
To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath day-beam burned
Upon a brow more fierce than that,—
Sullenly fierce,-a mixture dire,
Like thunder-clouds of gloom and fire!
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;
The ruined maid—the shrine profaned-
Oaths broken-and the threshhold stained
With blood of guests! there written all,
Black as the damning drops that fall.
From the denouncing Angel's pen,
Ere Mercy weeps them out again!
Yet tranquil now, that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Softened his spirit) looked and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play :-
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance
Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches that have burnt all night,
Through some impure and godless fite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.
But hark! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,
From SYRIA's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod
Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping the eternal name of God
From Purity's own cherub mouth
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again!
Oh 'twas a sight-that Heaven-that childA scene, which might have well beguiled
Even haughty EBLIS of a sigh
For glories lost and peace gone by!
And how felt he, the wretched Man, Reclining there,-while memory ran O'er many a year of guilt and strife, Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, Nor found one sunny resting place, Nor brought him back one branch of grace! "There was a time," he said in mild Heart-humbled tones, "thou blessed child, "When young, and haply pure as thou, "I looked and prayed like thee-but now". He hung his head, each nobler aim,
And hope, and feeling, which had slept, From boyhood's hour, that instant came Fresh o'er him, and he wept-he wept!
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!
In whose benign, redeeming flow
Is felt the first, the only sense
Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.
FROM THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM.
Alas!-how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love! Hearts that the world in vain had tried, And sorrow but more closely tied;
That stood the storm, when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,
Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity!
A something, light as air-a look,
A word unkind, or wrongly taken-
Oh! love, that tempests never shook,
A breath, a touch like this hath shaken.
And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds,—or like the stream,
That smiling left the mountain's brow,
As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Yet, ere it reach the plain below,
Breaks into floods, that part for ever.
Oh, you, that have the charge of Love,
Keep him in rosy bondage bound,
As in the fields of bliss above,
He sits, with flowerets fettered round;
Loose not a tie that round him clings,
Nor ever let him use his wings;
For even an hour, a minute's flight
Will rob the plumes of half their light.
Like that celestial bird, whose nest
Is found beneath far eastern skies,
Whose wings, though radiant when at rest,
Loose all their glory when he flies!
Fly to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love, or thrones without?
Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness.
Our sands are bare, but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs
As o'er the marble courts of kings.
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