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And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round

The stately cedar, tamarisks,

Thick roseries of scented thorn,

Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks
Graven with emblems of the time,

In honor of the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

XI.

With dazed vision unawares

From the long valley's latticed shade

Emerged, I came upon the great

Pavilion of the Caliphat.

Right to the carven cedarn doors,

Flung inward over spangled floors,
Broad-based flights of marbled stairs
Ran up with golden balustrade,
After the fashion of the time,
And humor of the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

XII.

The fourscore windows all alight

As with the quintessence of flame,
A million tapers flaring bright

From twisted silvers look'd to shame

The hollow-vaulted, dark, and stream'd
Upon the mooned domes aloof

In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd
Hundreds of crescents on the roof

Of night new-risen, that marvellous time,

To celebrate the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

XIII.

Then stole I up, and trancedly
Gazed on the Persian girl alone,
Serene with argent-lidded eyes
Amorous, and lashes like to rays
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl
Tressed with redolent ebony,

28

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS.

In many a dark delicious curl,

Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone;
The sweetest lady of the time,

Well worthy of the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

XIV.

Six columns, three on either side,

Pure silver, underpropp'd a rich

Throne of the massive ore, from which
Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold,
Engarlanded and diaper'd

With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold.
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd

With merriment of kingly pride,

Sole star of all that place and time,
I saw him in his golden prime,

THE GOOD HAroun AlraschID!

ODE TO MEMORY.

I.

THOU who stealest fire,

From the fountains of the past,

To glorify the present; oh, haste,
Visit my low desire!

Strengthen me, enlighten me!
I faint in this obscurity,

Thou dewy dawn of memory.

II.

Come not as thou camest of late,

Flinging the gloom of yesternight

On the white day; but robed in soften'd light Of orient state.

Whilome thou camest with the morning mist,
Even as a maid, whose stately brow

The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd,
When she, as thou,

Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots

Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits,
Which in wintertide shall star

The black earth with brilliance rare.

III.

Whilome thou camest with the morning mist,

And with the evening cloud,

Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast, (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind

Never grow sere,

When rooted in the garden of the mind,

Because they are the earliest of the year).

Nor was the night thy shroud.

In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest

Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope,

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