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A PLEDGE TO HAFIZ.

Brim the bowls with Shiraz wine !
Roses round your temples twine ;
Brim the bowls with Shiraz wine-
Hafiz pledge we, Bard divine !
With the summer warmth that glows
In the wine and on the rose,
Blushing, fervid, ruby-bright,
We shall pledge his name aright.

Hafiz, in whose measures move
Youth and Beauty, Song and Love -
In his veins the nimble flood
Was of wine, and not of blood.
All the songs he sang or thought
In his brain were never wrought,
But like rose leaves fell apart
From that bursting rose, his heart.

Youth is morning's transient ray;
Love consumes itself away ;
Time destroys what Beauty gives;
But in Song the Poet lives.
While we pledge him — thus — and thus —
He is present here in us ;
'Tis his voice that cries, not mine :
Brim the bowls with Shiraz wine !

THE GARDEN OF IREM.

Have you seen the Garden of Irem?
No mortal knoweth the road thereto.
Find me a path in the mists that gather
When the sunbeams scatter the morning dew,
And I will lead

you

thither. Give me a key to the halls of the sun When he goes behind the purple sea, Or a wand to open the vaults that run Down to the afrite-guarded treasures, And I will open its doors to thee. Who hath tasted its countless pleasures ? Who hath breathed, in its winds of spice, Raptures deeper than Paradise ? Who hath trodden its ivory floors, Where the fount drops pearl from a golden shell, And heard the hinges of diamond doors Swing to the music of Israfel ?

Its roses blossom, its palms arise,
By the phantom stream that flows so fair
Under the Desert's burning skies.
Can you reach that flood, can you drink its tide,
Can you swim its waves to the farther side,
Your feet may enter there.

II.

I have seen the Garden of Irem.
I found it, but I sought it not:
Without a path, without a guide,
I found the enchanted spot :
Without a key its golden gate stood wide.
I was young, and strong, and bold, and free
As the milk-white foal of the Nedjidee,
And the blood in my veins was like sap of the vine,
That stirs, and mounts, and will not stop
Till the breathing blossoms that bring the wine
Have drained its balm to the last sweet drop.
Lance and barb were all I knew,
Till deep in the Desert the spot I found,
Where the marvellous gates of Irem threw
Their splendors over an unknown ground.
Mine were the pearl and ivory floors,
Mine the music of diamond doors,

Turning each on a newer glory :
Mine were the roses whose bloom outran
The spring-time beauty of Gulistan,
And the fabulous flowers of Persian story.
Mine were the palms of silver stems,
And blazing emerald for diadems;
The fretted arch and the gossamer wreath,
So light and frail you feared to breathe ;
Yet o'er them rested the pendent spars
Of domes bespangled with silver stars,
And crusted gems of rare adorning :
And ever higher, like a shaft of fire,
The lessening links of the golden spire
Flamed in the myriad-colored morning!

Like one who lies on the marble lip
Of the blessed bath in a tranquil rest,
And stirs not even a finger's tip
Lest the beatific dream should slip,
So did I lie in Irem's breast.
Sweeter than Life and stronger than Death
Was every draught of that blissful breath ;
Warmer than Summer came its glow
To the youthful heart in a mighty flood,
And sent its bold and generous blood
To water the world in its onward flow.

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