And, crowned with Love's own garlands, Hafiz sang,-
Hafiz, who shed Joy's spell on every theme,
And painted life one rapturous summer dream.
With verdure still the poet's lawns are clad,
Still roses bend o'er crystal Roknabad;
And maidens, like young peris, fresh and gay,
Dance 'neath the shades of bowery Mossela;
Now to crisp gold Morn turns the babbling waves
That murmur near the tuneful brothers' graves,
And yew-trees, softening, cast no shade of gloom,
Bending like calm blessed watchers o'er each tomb.

But not for us the gorgeous city smiles,

With couch of softness, and sweet woman's wiles;
'Tis ours to urge our lone untiring way
Through wrecks of years, memorials of decay,
Striving with curious aim aside to cast
The veil which shrouds the Isis of the past.
Near Shiraz giant groups of ruin stand,
The pride of taste, the boast of Persia's land:
The dark o'erhanging hills our footsteps gain,
Wild and majestic sweeps that mountain-chain;
No trees adorn the slopes, or corn, or flowers,
But ruined shrines of fire, and mouldered towers.
Ah! well the smile from azure skies hath gone,
And Nature here put Terror's garment on:
The clouds their inky pall have hung on high,
The blast comes muttering like a spirit by.

Nicholas Michell.

THE STAR-FLOWER.

HERE Time the measure of his hours

WHI

By changeful bud and blossom keeps, And, like a young bride crowned with flowers, Fair Shiraz in her garden sleeps;

Where to her poet's turban stone,

The Spring her gift of flowers imparts, Less sweet than those his thoughts have sown In the warm soil of Persian hearts;

There sat the stranger, where the shade
Of scattered date-trees thinly lay,
While in the hot clear heaven delayed
The long and still and weary day.

Strange trees and fruits above him hung,
Strange odors filled the sultry air,
Strange birds upon the branches swung,
Strange insect voices murmured there.

And strange bright blossoms shone around,
Turned sunward from the shadowy bowers,
As if the Gheber's soul had found
A fitting home in Iran's flowers.

Whate'er he saw, whate'er he heard,
Awakened feelings new and sad,

No Christian garb, nor Christian word,
Nor church with Sabbath-bell chimes glad,

But Moslem graves, with turban stones,
And mosque-spires gleaming white, in view,
And graybeard Mollahs in low tones

Chanting their Koran service through.

The flowers which smiled on either hand,
Like tempting fiends, were such as they
Which once, o'er all that Eastern land,
As gifts on demon altars lay.

As if the burning eye of Baal

The servant of his Conqueror knew, From skies which knew no cloudy veil, The Sun's hot glances smote him through.

"Ah me!" the lonely stranger said,

"The hope which led my footsteps on, And light from heaven around them shed, O'er weary wave and waste, is gone!

"Where are the harvest fields all white,
For Truth to thrust her sickle in?
Where flock the souls, like doves in flight,
From the dark hiding-place of sin?

"And what am I, o'er such a land

The banner of the cross to bear? Dear Lord, uphold me with thy hand, Thy strength with human weakness share!"

He ceased; for at his very feet

In mild rebuke a floweret smiled, How thrilled his sinking heart to greet The Star-flower of the Virgin's child!

Sown by some wandering Frank, it drew
Its life from alien air and earth,
And told to Paynim sun and dew
The story of the Saviour's birth.

From scorching beams, in kindly mood,
The Persian plants its beauty screened,
And on its pagan sisterhood,

In love, the Christian floweret leaned.

With tears of joy the wanderer felt
The darkness of his long despair

Before that hallowed symbol melt

Which God's dear love had nurtured there.

From Nature's face that simple flower

The lines of sin and sadness swept;

And Magian pile and Paynim bower
In peace like that of Eden slept.

Each Moslem tomb, and cypress old,
Looked holy through the sunset air;

And angel-like, the Muezzin told

From tower and mosque the hour of prayer

With cheerful steps, the morrow's dawn
From Shiraz saw the stranger part;
The Star-flower of the Virgin-Born
Still blooming in his hopeful heart!

John Greenleaf Whittier.

Susa (Shooster).

SUSA.

FAR south of Ctesiphon, where Ulai flows,

That heard of old the song of Israel's woes, Ye meet a shapeless building, low and rude, Wild as the scene, where all is solitude; Who owned in other days this moss-clad cell? Here, Allah's child, did some blessed dervish dwell, Hoping, by scorning pleasure, hating man, And dragging on in woe life's wretched span, To win his prophet's praises in the skies, Sit in bright bowers, and bask in houris' eyes? No, yon small ruin marks the ancient dead; Hushed be thy voice, and walk with reverent tread ; Towers near a mighty mound, - 't is all ye see Of Persia's boast, of Susa's majesty ;

Wild fern and rue around thee whispering wave, Meet to adorn a perished people's grave.