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With horror from that dear embrace,

Those gentle arms that were to him
Holy as is the cradling place

Of Eden's infant cherubim f
And now he yields—now turns away,

Shuddering as if the venom lay

All in those proffered lips alone—

Those lips that, then so fearless growny

Never until that instant came

Near his unasked or without shame. 'Oh! let me only breathe the air,

The blessed air, that's breathed by theer And whether on its wings it bear

Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me! There,—drink my tears, while yet they fall,—

Would that my bosom's blood were balm, And well thou know'st, I'd shed it all, To give thy brow one minute's calm: Nay, turn not from me that dear face—

Am I not thine—thy own loved bride— The one, the chosen one, whose place

In life or death is by thy side I Think'st thou that she, whose only light

In this dim world from thee hath shone, Could bear the long the cheerless night,

That must be her's, when thou at gone?

That I can live, and let thee go,
Who art my life itself ?—No, no—
When the stem tlies, the leaf that grew
Out of its heart must perish too'
Then turn to me, ray own love, turn,
Before like thee I fade and burn;
Cling to these yet cool lips, and share
The last pure life that lingers there.'
She fails—she sinks—as dies the lamp
In chamel airs or cavern-damp,
So quickly do his baleful sighs
Quench all the sweet light of her eves:
One struggle,—and his pain is past—

Her lover is no longer living!
One kiss the maiden gives, one last,

Long kiss, which she expires in giving!

'Sleep,' said the Peri, as softly she stole
The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul;
As true as e'er warmed a woman's breast—
'Sleep on, in visions of odour rest,
In balmier airs than ever yet stirred
Th' enchanted pile of that lonely bird,
Who sings at the last his own death lay,
And in music and perfume dies away!'

Thus saying, from her lips she spread

Unearthly breathings through the place,
And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed
Such lustre o'er each paly face,
That like two lovely saints, they seemed

Upon the eve of doomsday taken
From their dim graves, in odour sleeping;—

While that benevolent Peri beamed
Like their good angel, calmly keeping

Watch o'er them, till their souls would waken!

But morn is blushing in the sky;

Again the Peri soars above, Bearing to heaven that precious sigh

Of pure, self-sacrificing love. • ,'

High throbbed her heart, with hope elate,

The Elysian palm she soon shall win, For the bright spirit at the gate

Smiled as she gave that offering in; And she already hears the trees

Of Eden with their crystal bells, Ringing in that ambrosial breeze

That from the throne of Alia swells; And she can see the starry bowls

That lie around that lucid lake, Upon whose banks admitted souk

Their first sweet draught of glory take!


But ah! even Peri's hopes are vain—

Again the fates forbade, again

The immortal barrier closed—' Not yet,'

The angel said, as with regret,

He shut from her that glimpse of glory—

'True was the maiden, and her story,

Written in light o'er Alla's head,

By seraph eyes shall long be read.

But, Peri, see—the crystal bar

Of Eden moves not—holier far

Than even this sigh the boon must be

That opes the gates of heaven for thee.'

Now, upon Syria's land of roses
Softly the light of eve reposes,
And, like a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted Lebanon;
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,

And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flowers,

Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

To one, who looked from upper air,
O'er all the enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow,
The life, the sparkling from below

Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks
Of golden melons on their banks,
More golden where the sunlight falls;
Gay lizards glittering on the walls
Of ruined shrines, busy and bright,
As they were all alive with light;—
And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks
Of pigeons, settling on the rocks,
With their rich restless wings, that gleam
Variously in the crimson beam
Of the warm west,—as if inlaid
With brilliants from the mine, or made
Of tearless rainbows, such as span
The unclouded skies of Peristan!
And then the mingling sounds that come,
Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum
Of the wild bees of Palestine,
Banquetting through the flowery vales,—
And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine,
And woods, so full of nightingales!

But nought can charm the luckless Peri;
Her soul is sad—her wings are weary—
Joyless she sees the sun look down
On that great temple once his own,

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