30 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. In many a dark delicious curl, Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone; Well worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. XIV. Six columns, three on either side, Pure silver, underpropt a rich Throne of the massive ore, from which With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. Sole star of all that place and time, THE GOOD HAROUN ALRASCHID ! ODE TO MEMORY. I. THOU who stealest fire, From the fountains of the past, To glorify the present; oh, haste, Visit my low desire! Strengthen me, enlighten me! Thou dewy dawn of memory. 11. Come not as thou camest of late, Flinging the gloom of yesternight On the white day; but robed in soften'd light Of orient state. Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd, Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, The black earth with brilliance rare. III. Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, And with the evening cloud, Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast, (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind Never grow sere, When rooted in the garden of the mind, Because they are the earliest of the year). Nor was the night thy shroud. In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. The eddying of her garments caught from thee The light of thy great presence; and the cope Of the half-attain'd futurity, Though deep not fathomless, Was cloven with the million stars which tremble O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. Small thought was there of life's distress; For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could dull Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful : Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres, Listening the lordly music flowing from The illimitable years. Oh strengthen me, enlighten me! I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. IV. Come forth I charge thee, arise, Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes! Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines 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 The seven elms, the poplars four gray hill-side, That stand beside my father's door, Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland. O hither lead thy feet! Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds, When the first matin-song hath waken'd loud Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, What time the amber morn Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. |