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HERE'S a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright,
Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day's light,
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender,
Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour.

This was not the beauty-oh, nothing like this,
That to young NOURMAHAL gave such magic of bliss!
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days,
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies
From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes;
Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams,
Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heav'n in his dreams.
When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace,
That charm of all others, was born with her face!
And when angry,-for ev'n in the tranquillest climes
Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes-
The short, passing anger but seem'd to awaken

New beauty, like flow'rs that are sweetest when shaken.
If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye
At once took a darker, a heav'nlier dye,
From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings
From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings.
Then her mirth-oh! 'twas sportive as ever took wing
From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring;
Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages,
Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages.
While her laugh, full of life, without any control
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul;
And where it most sparkled no glance could discover,
In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all over,-
Like fair lake that the breeze is upon,


When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun.

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ENEATH that fresh and springing bower,
Close by the Lake, she heard the moan

Of one who, at this silent hour,

Had thither stol'n to die alone.

One who in life, where'er he moved,
Drew after him the hearts of many;
Yet now, as though he ne'er were loved,
Dies here unseen, unwept by any!
None to watch near him-none to slake
The fire that in his bosom lies,
With ev'n a sprinkle from that lake,

Which shines so cool before his eyes.
No voice, well known through many a day,
To speak the last, the parting word,
Which, when all other sounds decay,

Is still like distant music heard ;-
That tender farewell on the shore
Of this rude world, when all is o'er,
Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown Dark.

Deserted youth! one thought alone

Shed joy around his soul in death,— That she, whom he for years had known, And loved, and might have call'd his own,

Was safe from this foul midnight's breath,

Safe in her father's princely halls,

Where the cool airs from fountain falls,

Freshly perfumed by many a brand

Of the sweet wood from India's land,

Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd.

But see who yonder comes by stealth,
This melancholy bow'r to seek,
Like a young envoy, sent by Health,
With rosy gifts upon her cheek?
"Tis she-far off, through moonlight dim,
He knew his own betrothed bride,
She, who would rather die with him,
Than live to gain the world beside !—
Her arms are round her lover now,

His livid cheek to hers she presses,
And dips, to bind his burning brow,
In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses.

Ah! once, how little did he think

An hour would come, when he should shrink With horror from that dear embrace,

Those gentle arms, that were to him

Holy as is the cradling place

Of Eden's infant cherubim!

And now he yields—now turns away,
Shudd'ring as if the venom lay
All in those proffer'd lips alone--
Those lips that, then so fearless grown,

Never until that instant came

Near his unask'd or without shame.

"Oh! let me only breathe the air,

The blessed air, that's breath'd by thee,

And, whether on its wings it bear

Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me! There-drink my tears, while yet they fallWould 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 brideThe one, the chosen one, whose place

In life or death is by thy side? 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 hers when thou art gone? That I can live, and let thee go, Who art my life itself?—No, no— When the stem dies, the leaf that grew Out of its heart must perish too! Then turn to me, my 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 charnel airs, or cavern-damp, So quickly do his baleful sighs Quench all the sweet light of her eyes. One struggle and his pain is pastHer lover is no longer living! One kiss the maiden gives, one last,

Long kiss, which she expires in giving!

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