WHO has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere,

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With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,1 Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?

Oh! to see it at sunset,

when warm o'er the Lake

Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws, Like a bride, full of blushes, when ling'ring to take

A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!

When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown,

And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own.
Here the music of pray'r from a minaret swells,

Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging,

"The rose of Kashmire for its brilliancy and delicacy of odour has long been proverbial in the East.”— Forster.

And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells

Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.

Or to see it by moonlight,

when mellowly shines

The light o'er its palaces, gardens and shrines;

When the water-falls gleam like a quick fall of stars, And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet

From the cool, shining walks where the young people

meet.

Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks,
Hills, cupolas, fountains, call'd forth every one
Out of darkness, as they were just born of the Sun.
When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day,
From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away;
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover
The young aspen-trees 3 till they tremble all over.
When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes,

And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl'd,

2" Tied round her waist the zone of bells, that sounded with ravishing melody."-Song of Jayadeva.

3" The little isles in the Lake of Cachemire are set with arbours and large-leaved aspen-trees, slender and tall.”— Bernier.

Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes, Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world!

But never yet, by night or day,
In dew of spring or summer's ray,
Did the sweet Valley shine so gay
As now it shines-all love and light,
Visions by day and feasts by night!
A happier smile illumes each brow,

With quicker spread each heart uncloses,
And all is ecstasy, - for now

The Valley holds its Feast of Roses, That joyous time, when pleasures pour Profusely round, and in their shower

Hearts open, like the Season's Rose,—

The Flowret of a hundred leaves, Expanding while the dew-fall flows,

And every leaf its balm receives!

6

4 "The Tuckt Suliman, the name bestowed by the Mahometans on this hill, forms one side of a grand portal to the Lake." -- Forster. 5 "The Feast of Roses continues the whole time of their remaining in bloom." v. Pietro de la Valle.

6" Gul sad berk, the Rose of a hundred leaves. I believe a particular species."— Ouseley.

"Twas when the hour of evening came Upon the Lake, serene and cool, When Day had hid his sultry flame

Behind the palms of BARAMOULE.' When maids began to lift their heads, Refresh'd, from their embroider'd beds, Where they had slept the sun away, And wak'd to moonlight and to play. All were abroad the busiest hive

8

On BELA's hills is less alive

When saffron beds are full in flower,

Than look'd the Valley in that hour.
A thousand restless torches play'd
Through every grove and island shade;
A thousand sparkling lamps were set
On every dome and minaret;

And fields and pathways, far and near,
Were lighted by a blaze so clear,

That you could see, in wandering round,
The smallest rose-leaf on the ground.

7 Bernier.

8 A place mentioned in the Toozek Jehangeery, or Memoirs of Jehanguire, where there is an account of the beds of saffron flowers about Cashmere.

Yet did the maids and matrons leave

Their veils at home, that brilliant eve;
And there were glancing eyes about,

And cheeks, that would not dare shine out
In open day, but thought they might
Look lovely then, because 'twas night!
And all were free, and wandering,
And all exclaim'd to all they met

That never did the summer bring

So a Feast of Roses yet;
gay

The moon had never shed a light

So clear as that which bless'd them there;

The roses ne'er shone half so bright,

Nor they themselves look'd half so fair.

And what a wilderness of flowers!

It seem'd as though from all the bowers
And fairest fields of all the year,
The mingled spoil were scatter'd here.
The Lake too like a garden breathes,
With the rich buds that o'er it lie,-

As if a shower of fairy wreaths

Had fall'n upon it from the sky!
And then the sounds of joy, the beat

Of tabors and of dancing feet;