THERE

And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; In the time of my childhood 't was like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.

That bower and its music I never forget,

But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, I think, is the nightingale singing there yet?

Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?

No, the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gathered, while freshly they shone,

And a dew was distilled from their flowers, that gave All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,

An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul, as 't was then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer! Thomas Moore.

Beysitoun, the Mountain.

MOUNT BEYSITOUN.

FERHAD was a sculptor of transcendent genius, who, from his passionate love for Shireen, was a troublesome rival to Khosru. The king, to get rid of his presence by engaging him in an impossible task, promised that if he would, unaided, cut through the impassable mountain of Beysitoun a channel for a river, and hew all the masses of rock into statues, the lovely maid he adored should be the reward of his labors. The slave of love accepted the condition. The enamored statuary commenced his work, crying, every time he struck the rock, "Alas, Shireen!"

ON

lofty Beysitoun the lingering sun

Looks down on ceaseless labors, long begun; The mountain trembles to the echoing sound Of falling rocks that from her sides rebound. Each day, all respite, all repose, denied, Without a pause the thundering strokes are plied; The mist of night around the summits coils, But still Ferhâd, the lover-artist, toils. And still, the flashes of his axe between, He sighs to every wind, "Alas, Shireen!" A hundred arms are weak one block to move Of thousands moulded by the hand of love Into fantastic shapes and forms of grace, That crowd each nook of that majestic place. The piles give way, the rocky peaks divide, The stream comes gushing on, a foaming tide, A mighty work for ages to remain,

The token of his passion and his pain.

As flows the milky flood from Allah's throne,

Rushes the torrent from the yielding stone.

And, sculptured there, amazed, stern Khosru stands,
And frowning sees obeyed his harsh commands;
While she, the fair beloved, with being rife,
Awakes from glowing marble into life.
O hapless youth! O toil repaid by woe!
A king thy rival, and the world thy foe.
Will she wealth, splendor, pomp, for thee resign,
And only genius, truth, and passion thine?
Around the pair, lo! chiselled courtiers wait,
And slaves and pages grouped in solemn state;
From columns imaged wreaths their garlands throw,
And fretted roofs with stars appear to glow:
Fresh leaves and blossoms seem around to spring,
And feathered throngs their loves seem murmuring.
The hands of Peris might have wrought those stems
Where dew-drops hang their fragile diadems,
And strings of pearl and sharp-cut diamonds shine,
New from the wave, or recent from the mine.

'Alas, Shireen!" at every stroke he cries,

At every stroke fresh miracles arise.

"For thee my life one ceaseless toil has been

Inspire my soul anew,

- alas, Shireen!"

;

Nisami. Tr. W. R. Alger.

IN

Desert of Persia.

HASSAN; OR, THE CAMEL-DRIVER.

N silent horror o'er the boundless waste
The driver Hassan with his camels past:
One cruse of water on his back he bore,
And his light scrip contained a scanty store;
A fan of painted feathers in his hand,
To guard his shaded face from scorching sand,
The sultry sun had gained the middle sky,
And not a tree and not an herb was nigh;
The beasts with pain their dusty way pursue:
Shrill roared the winds, and dreary was the view!
With desperate sorrow wild, the affrighted man

Thrice sighed; thrice struck his breast; and thus be

gan:

"Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!

"Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind, The thirst, or pinching hunger that I find! Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall thirst assuage, When fails this cruse, his unrelenting rage? Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign; Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine?

"Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear In all my griefs a more than equal share!

Here, where no springs in murmurs break away, Or moss-crowned fountains mitigate the day,

In vain ye hope the green delights to know
Which plains more blest, or verdant vales bestow;
Here rocks alone, and tasteless sands are found:
And faint and sickly winds forever howl around.
Sad was the hour and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!

"Curst be the gold and silver which persuade Weak men to follow far fatiguing trade! The lily peace outshines the silver store, And life is dearer than the golden ore; Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown, To every distant mart and wealthy town. Full oft we tempt the land and oft the sea: And are we only yet repaid by thee? Ah! why was ruin so attractive made ? Or why fond man so easily betrayed? Why heed we not, while mad we haste along, The gentle voice of peace, or pleasure's song? Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's side, The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride, Why think we these less pleasing to behold Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold? Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!

"O, cease, my fears! all frantic as I go, When thought creates unnumbered scenes of woe, What if the lion in his rage I meet?