A million tapers flaring bright In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd Of night new-risen, that marvellous time Then stole I up, and trancedly In many a dark delicious curl, Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone; The sweetest lady of the time, Well worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Six columns, three on either side, Throne of the massive ore, from which With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. Sole star of all that place and time, I saw him - in his golden prime, THE GOOD HAROUN ALRASCHID! ODE TO MEMORY. 1. THOU who stealest fire Strengthen me, enlighten me ! Thou dewy dawn of memory. 2. Come not as thou camest of late, On the white day; but robed in soften❜d light Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight The black earth with brilliance rare. 3. Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast, (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind Never grow sear, When rooted in the garden of the mind, In swret dreams softer than unbroken rest The eddying of her garments caught from thee The light of thy great presence; and the cope Of the half-attain'd futurity, Tho' deep not fathomless. Was cloven with the million stars which tremble O strengthen me, enlighten me ! Thou dewy dawn of memory. 4. Come forth I charge thee, arise, Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes! Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines Unto mine inner eye, Divinest Memory! Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall Which ever sounds and shines A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried: Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side, The seven elms, the poplars four That stand beside my father's door, To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland. Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat When the first matin-song bath waken'd loud What time the amber morn Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. 5. Large dowries doth the raptured eye When first she is wed; And like a bride of old In triumph lel, With music and sweet showers Unto the dwelling she must sway. With royal frame-work of wrought gold; Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls For the discovery And newness of thine art so pleased thee, With thee unto the love thou bearest On the prime labor of thine early days: Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, Or even a sand-built ridge Of heaped hills that mound the sea, Overblown with murmurs harsh, Or even a lowly cottage whence we see Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsh, Where from the frequent bridge, Like emblems of infinity, The trenched waters run from sky to sky; Or a garden bower'd close With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, Of crowned lilies, standing near Purple-spiked lavender: Whither in after-life retired From brawling storms, From weary wind, With youthful fancy reinspired, We may hold converse with all forms Of the many-sided mind, And those whom passion hath not blinded, My friend, with you to live alone, SONG. 1. A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours For at eventide, listening earnestly, Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers: Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 2. The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year's last rose. Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i̇' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. |