As ever wind, that o'er the tents

Of AZAB* blew, was full of scents,
Steals on her ear, and floats and swells,
Like the first air of morning creeping

Into those wreathy, Red-Sea shells,

Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping+;
And now a Spirit form'd, 'twould seem,
Of music and of light,—so fair,

So brilliantly his features beam,

And such a sound is in the air

Of sweetness when he waves his wings,-
Hovers around her, and thus sings:

From CHINDARA's warbling fount I come,
Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell;
From CHINDARA's fount, my fairy home,
Where in music, morn and night, I dwell.

* The myrrh country.

+ "This idea (of deities living in shells) was not unknown to the Greeks, who represent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in shells on the shores of the Red Sea." Wilford.

"A fabulous fountain, where instruments are said to be constantly playing."— Richardson.

Where lutes in the air are heard about,

And voices are singing the whole day long, And every sigh the heart breathes out

Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song!

Hither I come

From my fairy home,

And if there's a magic in Music's strain,
I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath,

Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

For mine is the lay that lightly floats,
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea,
And melt in the heart as instantly :—
And the passionate strain that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through,

As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too.

Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway
The Spirits of past Delight obey;
Let but the tuneful talisman sound,

And they come, like Genii, hovering round.

And mine is the gentle song that bears
From soul to soul, the wishes of love,
As a bird, that wafts through genial airs
The cinnamon-seed from grove to grove.*

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure The past, the present, and future of pleasure+;

"The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to different places, is a great disseminator of this valuable tree. See Brown's Illustr. Tab. 19.

"Whenever our pleasure arises from a succession of sounds, it is a perception of a complicated nature, made up of a sensation of the present sound or note, and an idea or remembrance of the foregoing, while their mixture and concurrence produce such a mysterious delight, as neither could have produced alone. And it is often heightened by an anticipation of the succeeding notes. Thus Sense, Memory, and Imagination, are conjunctively employed." — Gerrard on Taste.

This is exactly the Epicurean theory of Pleasure, as explained by Cicero: :-" Quocirca corpus gaudere tamdiu, dum præsentem sentiret voluptatem: animum et præsentem percipere pariter cum corpore et prospicere venientem, nec præteritam præterfluere sinere."

Madame de Staël accounts upon the same principle for the gratification we derive from rhyme: -"Elle est l'image de l'espérance et du souvenir. Un son nous fait désirer celui qui doit lui répondre, et quand le second retentit il nous rappelle celui qui vient de nous échapper."

When Memory links the tone that is gone With the blissful tone that's still in the ear; And Hope from a heavenly note flies on

To a note more heavenly still that is near.

The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me,
Can as downy soft and as yielding be

As his own white plume, that high amid death
Through the field has shone-yet moves with a breath!
And, oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten,

When Music has reach'd her inward soul,

Like the silent stars, that wink and listen
While Heaven's eternal melodies roll.
So, hither I come

From my fairy home,

And if there's a magic in Music's strain,
I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath,

Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

'Tis dawn-at least that earlier dawn, Whose glimpses are again withdrawn*,

"The Persians have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim

As if the morn had wak'd, and then

Shut close her lids of light again.
And NOURMAHAL is up, and trying

The wonders of her lute, whose strings

Oh, bliss!

-now murmur like the sighing

From that ambrosial Spirit's wings.

And then, her voice-'tis more than human

Never, till now, had it been given

To lips of any mortal woman

To utter notes so fresh from heaven; Sweet as the breath of angel sighs, When angel sighs are most divine. "Oh! let it last till night," she cries, "And he is more than ever mine."

and the Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real day-break. They account for this phenomenon in a most whimsical manner. They say that as the sun rises from behind the Kohi Qaf (Mount Caucasus), it passes a hole perforated through that mountain, and that darting its rays through it, it is the cause of the Soobhi Kazim, or this temporary appearance of daybreak. As it ascends, the earth is again veiled in darkness, until the sun rises above the mountain, and brings with it the Soobhi Sadig, or real morning."

Scott Waring.

Milton may allude to this, when he says,

"Ere the blabbing Eastern scout,
The nice morn on the Indian steep
From her cabin'd loop-hole peep."

He thinks