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But what are cups, without the aid
Of song to speed them as they flow?
And see-a lovely Georgian maid,

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With all the bloom, the freshen'd glow Of her own country maidens' looks, When warm they rise from TEFLIS' brooks;

And with an eye, whose restless ray,
Full, floating, dark-oh, he, who knows
His heart is weak, of Heav'n should pray
To guard him from such eyes as those !--
With a voluptuous wildness flings
Her snowy hand across the strings

Of a syrinda, and thus sings:

Come hither, come hither-by night and by day,
We linger in pleasures that never are gone ;
Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away,
Another as sweet and as shining comes on.
And the love that is o'er, in expiring, gives birth
To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss ;
And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh
As the flow'r of the Amra just oped by a bee;
And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,
Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea.
Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth
When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss,
And own if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.

Here sparkles the nectar, that, hallow'd by love,
Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere,
Who for wine of this earth left the fountains above,

And forgot heav'n's stars for the eyes we have here. And, bless'd with the odour our goblet gives forth, What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss? For, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this.

The Georgian's song was scarcely mute,

When the same measure, sound for sound, Was caught up by another lute,

And so divinely breath'd around, That all stood hush'd and wondering, And turn'd and look'd into the air, As if they thought to see the wing

Of ISRAFIL, the Angel, there;---
So pow'rfully on ev'ry soul

That new, enchanted measure stole.
While now a voice, sweet as the note
Of the charm'd lute, was heard to float

Along its chords, and so entwine

Its sounds with theirs, that none knew whether The voice or lute was most divine,

So wondrously they went together :

There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, When two, that are link'd in one heav'nly tie,

With heart never changing, and brow never cold, Love on through all ills, and love on till they die!

One hour of a passion so sacred is worth

Whole ages of heartless and wand'ring bliss ;
And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.

'Twas not the air, 't was not the words,

But that deep magic in the chords
And in the lips, that gave such pow'r

As Music knew not till that hour.

At once a hundred voices said,

"It is the mask'd Arabian maid!

While SELIM, who had felt the strain
Deepest of any, and had lain

Some minutes rapt, as in a trance,
After the fairy sounds were o'er,
Too inly touch'd for utterance,

Now motion'd with his hand for more:

Fly to the desert, fly with me,

Our Arab tents are rude for thee;

But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt,

Of tents with love, or thrones without?

Our rocks are rough, but, smiling there,
The' acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less

For flow'ring in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope

The silv'ry-footed antelope

As gracefully and gaily springs

As o'er the marble courts of kings.

Then come-thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.

Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,—
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;

As if the very lips and eyes,
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,

Sparkled and spoke before us then

So came thy ev'ry glance and tone

When first on me they breath'd and shone;
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if loved for years.

Then fly with me,-if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.

Come, if the love thou hast for me,
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,-
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found.

But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place ;-

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Then, fare thee well-I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake

When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine!

There was a pathos in this lay,

That, ev'n without enchantment's art, Would instantly have found its way

Deep into SELIM's burning heart;

But breathing, as it did, a tone
To earthly lutes and lips unknown;
With every chord fresh from the touch
Of Music's Spirit,-'t was too much
Starting, he dash'd away the cup,-

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