Classic Poem

Before thy tent-door let me stand,
O maiden from the isle of Zante!
And let a German's brow be fanned
By spicy breezes from Levant.

The fragrances of Orient springs
Are in thy phials charmed, I guess.
To North Sea strands Natolia brings
Her ointments and her essences:—

The delicate rosewood's fleeting oil,
Of noble incense the round corn,
Brought from Bagdad, by camels' toil,
To the mast-wood of the Golden Horn.

From distant marts they came to thee,
Through trading hordes of Southern lands,
In Stamboul and Gallipoli;—
Thou sell'st them now on Northern strands.

Thy moving house gleams far and wide,
The golden beakers sparkle so;
Gay as the peacock's motley pride,
Strange dresses on thy tables glow.

And thou, behind them, pacing, too,—
God's peace within this threshold dwell!
So, on the banks of Karasu,
By Taurus, feeds the slim gazelle.

The calm blue eye seems lost afar,
'Neath thy blue turban and black hair;
See'st thou, in spirit, the bazaar
Of Smyrna and its buyers fair?

Dream on! and still roam back, in thought,
O'er many a dusty, weary mile!
What do I want? O, ask me not!
I would but see thy priceless smile!