VIII.

Black the garden-bowers and grots Slumbered: the solemn palms were ranged Above, unwooed of summer wind:

A sudden splendor from behind

Flushed all the leaves with rich gold-green,
And, flowing rapidly between
Their interspaces, counterchanged
The level lake with diamond-plots

Of dark and bright. A lovely time,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

IX.

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead,
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid,

Grew darker from that under-flame :
So, leaping lightly from the boat,
With silver anchor left afloat,
In marvel whence that glory came
Upon me, as in sleep I sank

In cool soft turf upon the bank,
Entranced with that place and time,
So worthy of the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

X.

Thence through the garden I was drawn-
A realm of pleasance, many a mound,
And many a shadow-chequered 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,

In honor of the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

XI.

With dazed vision unawares

From the long alley's lattice 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 marble 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 looked to shame

The hollow-vaulted dark, and streamed
Upon the mooned domes aloof

In inmost Bagdat, till there seemed
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,
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, underpropt a rich

Throne of the massive ore, from which
Down-drooped, in many a floating fold,
Engarlanded and diapered

With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirred 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 softened 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 kissed, When she, as thou,