lightly as young roes over the aromatic plains of Tibet; while FADLADEEN, in addi. tion to the spiritual comfort derived by him from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the saint from whom the valley is named, had also opportunities of indulging, in a small way, his taste for victims, by putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate little lizaras, which all pious Mussulmans make it a point to kill-taking for granted, that the manner in which the creature hangs its head is meant as a mimicry of the attitude in which the Faithful say their prayers.

About two miles from Hussun Abdaul were those Royal Gardens, which had grown beautiful under the care of so many lovely eyes, and were beautiful still, though those eyes could see them no longer. This place, with its flowers and its holy silence, interrupted only by the dipping of the wings of birds in its marble basins filled with the pure water of those hills, was to LALLA ROOKH all that her heart could fancy of fragrance, coolness, and atmost heavenly tranquillity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, "it was too delicious; "—and here, in listening to the sweet voice of FERAMORz, or reading in his eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the most exquisite moments of her whole life were passed. One evening, when they had been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal, the Light of the Haram, who had so often wandered among those flowers, and fed with her own hands, in those marble basins, the small shining fishes of which she was so fond, the youth, in order to delay the moment of separation, proposed to recite a short story, or rather rhapsody, of which this adored Sultana was the heroine. It related, he said, to the reconcilement of a sort of lovers' quarrel which took place between her and the Emperor during Feast of Roses at Cashmere; and would remind the Princess of that difference between Haroun al-Raschid and his fair mistress Marida which was so happily made up by the soft strains of the musician, Moussali. As the story was chiefly to be told in song, and FERAMORZ had unluckily forgotten his own lute in the valley. he borrowed the vina of LALLA ROOKH's little Persian slave and thus began:

WHO has not heard of the Vale of CASHMERE,
With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,
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, 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 meeů
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 if but 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, 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,
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;
The joyous Time, when pleasures pour
Profusely round, and, in their shower,
Hearts open, like the Season's Rose,

The Flow'ret of a hundred leaves,
Expanding while the dew-fall flows,

And every leaf its balm receives.

"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 maid began to lift their heads,
Refresh'd from their embroider'd beds,
Where they had slept the sun away,
And wak'd to noonlight and to play.

All were abroad-the busiest hive
On BELA'S hills is less alive,
When saffron-beds are full in flow'r,
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 wand'ring round,
The smallest rose-leaf on the ground.
Yet did the maids and matrons leave
Their veils at home, that brilliant eve;
And there we.e 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 guy a Feast of Roses yet;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 flow'rs!
It seem'd as though from all the bow'rs
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,

The minaret-crier's chaunt of glee

Sung from his lighted gallery,"

And answer'd by a ziraleet

From neighbouring Haram, wild and sweet;

The merry laughter, echoing

From gardens, where the silken swing

Wafts some delighted girl above
The top leaves of the orange-grove;
Or, from those infant groups at play
Among the tents that line the way,
Flinging, unaw'd by slave or mother,
Handfuls of roses at each other.

Then, the sounds from the Lake,-the low whisp'ring in boats,
As they shoot through the moonlight;-the dipping of oars,
And the wild, airy warbling that ev'rywhere floats,

Through the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores, Like those of KATHAY, utter'd music, and gave

An answer in song to the kiss of each wave.

But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of feeling,
That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing,-
Some lover, who knows all the heart-touching power
Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour.