There the proud oleander with white tufts was hung,
And the fragile clematis its silver showers flung,
And the nutmeg’s soft pink was near lost in the pride
Of the pomegranate blossom that blushed at its side.
There the butterflies flitted around on the leaves,
From which every wing its own colour receives;
There the scarlet finch past like a light on the wind,
And the hues of the bayas*[1] like sunbeams combined;
Till the dazzled eye sought from such splendours to rove,
And rested at last on the soft lilac dove;†[2]
Whose song seemed a dirge that at evening should be
Pour’d forth from the height of the sad cypress tree.
Her long dark hair plaited with gold on each braid;
Her feet bound with jewels which flash’d through the shade;
One hand filled with blossoms, pure hyacinth bells
Which treasure the summer’s first breath in their cells;
The other caressing her white antelope,
In all the young beauty of life and of hope.
The princess roved onwards, her heart in her eyes,
That sought their delight in the fair earth and skies.
Oh, loveliest time! oh, happiest day!
When the heart is unconscious, and knows not its sway,
When the favourite bird, or the earliest flower,
Or the crouching fawn’s eyes, make the joy of the hour,
And the spirits and steps are as light as the sleep
Which never has waken’d to watch or to weep.
She bounds o’er the soft grass, half woman half child,
As gay as her antelope, almost as wild.
The bloom of her cheek is like that on her years;
She has never known pain, she has never known tears,
And thought has no grief, and no fear to impart;
The shadow of Eden is yet on her heart.
"The midnight has fallen, the quiet, the deep,
Yet in yon Zenana none lie down for sleep.
Like frighted birds gathered in timorous bands,
The young slaves within it are wringing their hands.
23
- ↑ The Bayas.— Small crested sparrows, with bright yellow breasts.
- ↑ † The Kokle.—Miss Roberts, to whose "Oriental Scenes" I am indebted for so much information, gracefully and fancifully says, "When listening to the song of the kokle, its melancholy cadences, and abrupt termination, always impressed my mind with the idea, that the broken strains were snatches of some mournful story, too full of wo to be told at once."
