The visions that oft to worldly eyes
The glitter of mines unfold
Inhabit the mountain-herb[307] that dyes
The tooth of the fawn like gold.
The phantom shapes--oh touch not them--
That appal the murderer's sight,
Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem,
That shrieks when pluckt at night!
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
The dream of the injured, patient mind
That smiles at the wrongs of men
Is found in the bruised and wounded rind
Of the cinnamon, sweetest then.
Then hasten we, maid,
To twine our braid,
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.
No sooner was the flowery crown
Placed on her head than sleep came down,
Gently as nights of summer fall,
Upon the lids of NOURMAHAL;--
And suddenly a tuneful breeze
As full of small, rich harmonies
As ever wind that o'er the tents
Of AZAB[308] blew was full of scents,
Steals on her ear and floats and swells
Like the first air of morning creeping
Into those wreathy, Red-Sea shells
Where Love himself of old lay sleeping;[309]
And now a Spirit formed, 'twould seem,
Of music and of light,--so fair,
So brilliantly his features beam,
And such a sound is in the air
Of sweetness when he waves his wings,--
Hovers around her and thus sings:
From CHINDARA'S[310] warbling fount I come,
Called by that moonlight garland's spell;
From CHINDARA'S fount, my fairy home,
Wherein music, morn and night, I dwell.
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