Far off, and where the lemon grove In closest coverture upsprung, Of good Haroun Alraschid. Black the garden-bowers and grots Slumber'd the solemn palms were ranged Above, unwoo'd of summer wind: A sudden splendour from behind Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green, Of dark and bright. A lovely time, Of good Haroun Alraschid. Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, Grew darker from that under-flame : So, leaping lightly from the boat, Thence thro' the garden I was drawn— A realm of pleasance, many a mound, And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn Full of the city's stilly sound, And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round The stately cedar, tamarisks, Thick rosaries of scented thorn, Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks Graven with emblems of the time, With dazed vision unawares Right to the carven cedarn doors, Flung inward over spangled floors, Broad-based flights of marble stairs After the fashion of the time, The fourscore windows all alight From twisted silvers look'd to shame In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd Of night new-risen, that marvellous time To celebrate the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Then stole I up, and trancedly The sweetest lady of the time, Well worthy of the golden prime Six columns, three on either side, Throne of the massive ore, from which With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. Sole star of all that place and time, ODE TO MEMORY. ADDRESSED TO I. THOU who stealest fire, From the fountains of the past, To glorify the present; oh, haste, Strengthen me, enlighten me! 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 Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, Even as a maid, whose stately brow ! |