Classic Poem

I.

How beauteous art thou, O thou morning Sun!
The old man, feebly tottering forth, admires
As much thy beauty, now life's dream is done,
As when he moved exulting in youth's fires.

II.

The infant strains his little arms to catch
The rays that glance about his silken hair;
And Luxury hangs her amber lamps to match
Thy face when turned away from bower and palace fair.

III.

Sweet to the lip the draught, the blushing fruit;
Music and perfumes mingle with the soul;
How thrills the kiss, when feeling's voice is mute!
And light and beauty's tints enhance the whole.

IV.

Yet each keen sense were dulness but for thee:
Thy ray to joy, love, virtue, genius, warms.
Thou never weariest: no inconstancy
But comes to pay new homage to thy charms.

V.

How many lips have sung thy praise! how long!
Yet, when his slumbering harp he feels thee woo,
The pleasured bard pours forth another song,
And finds in thee, like love, a theme forever new.

VI.

Thy dark-eyed daughters come in beauty forth
In thy near realms; and, like their snow-wreaths fair.
The bright-haired youths and maidens of the North
Smile in thy colors when thou art not there.

VII.

'Tis there thou bid'st a deeper ardor glow,
And higher, purer reveries completest;
As drops that farthest from the ocean flow,
Refining all the way, from springs the sweetest.

VIII.

Haply sometimes, spent with the sleepless night,
Some wretch, impassioned, from sweet morning's breath
Turns his hot brow, and sickens at thy light;
But Nature, ever kind, soon heals, or gives him death.

IX.

Fair Sun, no goodlier shape thy smiles this morn
Caressed than Helon's, as he came from far,
A broidered scarf for girdle, closely drawn,
And sandals on his feet, like Parthian messenger.

X.

The youth's brown ringlets in the loving beam
Hung changeful, bright, and crisp: his neck, his bust,
Have thousand beauties all their own, and seem
Not only moulded to proportion just,

But all his form, slightly attenuate,
As best bespeaks activity, exprest
Something unseen; as if might emanate
Excess of soul through the material breast,

That heaved and panted 'neath his garment blue
(Which fell but to the knee); and, all about,
A warmth — a mystic charm — seemed breathing through
Each viewless pore, and circling him without.

XI.

His youthful cheek was bronzed; and, though his eye
Was of no vaunted hue, successive came
Of war and chase the quick variety;
But oftener tenderness lent there her gentlest flame.

XII.

His sinewy arms were bare, and at his back
A bow and quiver held their airy place:
Like some young hunter in the tiger's track
He moved, with dart in hand, all symmetry and grace.

XIII.

But though (as rosy mists dispersed around,
And birds sang sweet, and glistening meadows bloomed)
He met with passing joy the sight and sound,
Yet Sadness o'er his face full soon her reign resumed.

XIV.

Nor this escaped an old man at his side,
Whose looks told tales of many years: but fair
He was, and for a youth beseeming guide;
Not Casius' peaks were whiter than his hair.

XV.

On hair or robe nor spot nor stain was seen,
Though earth had been his bed, and dust his path;
Cool looked he in the sun, and pure and clean,
As if in marble hall, and fresh from recent bath.

XVI.

And so he spoke: " Why, Helon, art thou thus
Silent and sad? The desert way we've past
Has been a path of founts and flowers to us;
Yet, at our wandering's close, I view thy brow o'ercast. "

XVII.

Then Helon said, " What cause for joy have I,
Even were the uncertain dross we seek for found?
Who now regards my gentle mother's sigh
While I am far? and what reward has crowned

" My father's worth and truth? Alas! our God,
Who sits rejoicing in his mystery
And boundless power, I fear may not accord
The least of his regards to them or me.

XVIII.

" Forsake but him, and palaces unfold
Their hospitable gates to me and mine:
Now, for a beggar's hoard, a little gold,
I go a wanderer forth, the last of all my line.

XIX.

" I gave up every youthful hope; nay, more,
Would give up life as freely as a sigh:
For, if old Oran live, and should restore
The treasure sought, our dwindled line must die.

XX.

" Why beats this heart? why is this arm so strong?
Soon, to a little earth dissolved again,
Shall ever pen of scribe, or harper's song,
Declare that one like Helon ere has been?

XXI.

" My sire and mother dead, around their tombs
I like a ghost must linger, loving nought:
Oh! if to this our God his faithful dooms,
Cast, cast me to the flames, and save me from the thought! "

XXII.

The old man looked upon him, marked his pain,
And love and pity mingled with that look;
For on his youthful brow was swoln the vein,
And like the fevered sick his pulses shook.

Yet on he spoke: " Still might I, warm with life,
Back to the queen of cities; take my place;
Choose from the bowers of Babylon a wife;
And bless my mother's eyes with a new blooming race,

" That else is lost. What though the fair I take
E'en from Mylitta's fanes? Women may be
Inthralled by love, and often will forsake
All other gods for love's idolatry. "

XXIII.

The old man turned and uttered, " Do I hear
From Helon this? Some evil thing, some Sprite,
While darkness reigned, has whispered in thine ear,
And tempted thee, in visions of the night. "

XXIV.

" Some evil thing! " returned the youth in mood
More vehement. " If evil things can give
Dreams such as mine, let me turn foe to good,
And make a God of Evil while I live! "

XXV.

" Make thee a God of Evil? " Hariph said:
" Too daring boy, the ambient viewless air
Teems with a race that hovers o'er thy head:
Woe to thy heart and thee if some find entrance there!

XXVI.

" From childhood nurtured 'neath the Baalic willow,
Where every breeze respires idolatry,
Thy soul, even as thy lip Euphrates' billow,
Has drank pollution, spite of Heaven and me. "

XXVII.

" Pollution! Hariph, could such being beam "
(So Helon spoke) " as from a fearful death
I saved last night (ah! why was't but a dream?)
She would not be unworthy, though her breath

" Had been derived from Pagan sorcerer,
Priest of the Cnidian fanes, or priest of fire:
The signet of high heaven impressed on her
Gives to oblivion these, and stamps her heavenly sire! "

XXVIII.

The old man turned, and cast upon the boy
(Who for his fervor spoke in impious guise)
An anxious glance; but yet a secret joy,
The while he thus reproved, seemed hidden in his eyes.

XXIX.

" Thy doubts and words are guilty! 'Tis not given
To son of mortal (though he even may be
O'erwatched and well beloved by those of heaven)
To know what beings sway his destiny.

XXX.

" Thy dream was good; but, lest thyself undo
All that is done, I tell thee, youth, beware!
Curb thine impatience; keep thy God in view,
Nor murmur at the cup his wisdom may prepare.

" Virtue! how many as a lowly thing,
Born of weak folly, scorn thee! but thy name
Alone they know: upon thy soaring wing
They'd fear to mount; nor could thy sacred flame

" Burn in their baser hearts: the biting thorn,
The flinty crag, flowers hiding, strew thy field;
Yet blest is he whose daring bides the scorn
Of the frail easy herd, and buckles on thy shield.

" Who says thy ways are bliss, trolls but a lay
To lure the infant: if thy paths to view
Were always pleasant, Crime's worst sons would lay
Their daggers at thy feet, and from mere sloth pursue.

XXXI.

" Nor deed nor prayer nor suffering of the just
Is ever lost " (he said; his clear eye flashed):
" Tempt not the powers that love thee, more! " Then first
The youth felt awe, and dropped his lids abashed.

XXXII.

Still Hariph spoke: " If ever thou shouldst live
To be in danger from a potent Sprite,
Recall me to thy mind; take what I give,
And burn whate'er it holds, with perfume, in his sight. "

XXXIII.

Helon received a little box composed
Of carneol; and the sunbeams, as they rushed
Through the transparent hollow gem, disclosed
What seemed a serpent's heart, but dried and crushed.

XXXIV.

Then bent they near a thicket, side by side,
Their friendly way, nor more in words exprest;
But often Helon looked upon his guide,
And seemed communing with his inmost breast.

XXXV.

Warm grew the day; and now, as if to mock
Their sight, with sudden wind the river swept.
They turn a mossy, dark, projecting rock,
And start; for 'neath its crags a woman slept,

Pallid and worn, but beautiful and young,
Though marked her charms by wildest passion's trace:
Her long round arms, over a fragment flung,
From pillow all too rude protect a face

Whose dark and high-arched brows gave to the thought
To deem what radiance once they towered above;
But all its proudly beauteous outline taught
That anger there had shared the throne of love.

XXXVI.

Rich are her robes, but torn and soiled; and gleams
Above her belt a dagger set with gems:
Her long black hair, 'scaped from its braiding, streams,
Black as a serpent, to her garments' hems.

XXXVII.

Black as a serpent. — Daughters of the woods,
You see him 'mid Mechaceba's roses, while
Your light canoes upon the vernal floods
Are thrown to bear you to some floating isle,

Where sleeping bisons sail upon the tide:
There, while through golden-blossomed nenuphar
Your arrows pierce some tall flamingo's side,
He rears his white-ringed neck, and watches you from far.

XXXVIII.

Her sandalled feet were scarred, and drops of blood
Still rested fresh on them, by tooth of thorn
Expressed; and, let day's eye look where it would,
'Twere hard to find such beauty so forlorn.

XXXIX.

Near on the moss lay one who seemed her guide;
A mule among the herbs his pittance took;
A little slave of Ethiope, at her side,
Sat watching o'er them all with many a sorrowing look.

XL.

Helon drew back, but only half suppressed
The cry surprise propelled. " What strange mischance
Brings to the desert these? " While so addressed
Hariph, the one on earth awoke beneath their glance,

And laid his finger on his lip in fear,
And on the sleeper gazed: she did not stir.
Then, wiping from his sunken eye a tear,
He fell before their feet, a suppliant for her.

XLI.

Then Helon thus: " Distrust us not, but tell
Why thou art here, and who is that soft dame?
Thyself, thine accent, and her garb, speak well
That from the City of the Dove ye came. "

XLII.

" I'm one, " he said, " by cruel man designed
The doubtful faith, in absence, to protect
Of hearts as wayward as the desert wind;
And which, despite of all, love only can subject.

XLIII.

" To care of women nurtured from a boy,
Stranger, in me a suffering wretch you see
Ripened to age, but in that soft employ
A princess only guard, but frail and weak as she.

XLIV.

" Our silken limbs, by biting brambles torn,
Have felt the noontide heat and drenching rain;
And that bright maid, for love and pleasure born,
Breathes to the desert-blast her burning sighs in vain.

XLV.

" Yet have we lived adorers of that Power
Which to the death-reaped world a race supplies
As numerous as the stars of midnight skies,
Or desert sands, or dust from every flower
That blossoms by the stream that flowed from Paradise.

XLVI.

" Divine Mylitta, child of light, and that
Which from dark nothing formed the teeming earth;
Of that which on the circling waters sat,
And warmed, and charmed, and ranged, till Nature sprang to birth! —

XLVII.

" Divine Mylitta, kindler of the flames
That light life's lamp! in duteousness to thee
I brought this gem, this sun of Syrian dames;
But, now thy slave and Love's, thou mock'st her misery. "

XLVIII.

Then Helon spoke: " Has any wretch, more fell
Than he who first his hurtful arts essayed
On her of Paradise, done this? Nay, tell
Thy tale; and take, if we can lend thee, aid. "

XLIX.

" Then listen, stranger; but for Belus' sake
Let her sleep on who hath such need of rest, "
Zameia's guardian said; " for, when awake,
The flames of Tartarus are in her breast.

L.

" She sat and raved last eve in the pale light
Till the fair moon she looked on seemed to shrink
From her distress: fearing some spell or blight,
I drew her to this grot, and drugged her drink. "

LI.

Then softly near to her wild couch he drew,
Twining the tendrils o'er her, as he can,
To save from sun as they had saved from dew;
Then sat him on the rock, and thus his story ran: —

LII.

" The warrior Imlec by Euphrates' side
Received his birth: there haply still he thrives;
And, when he took Zameia for a bride,
His beard was white, and he had many wives.

LIII.

" Now, when I tell thee her inconstancy,
Let thoughts of pity mingle with the blame
'Tis just to cast upon adultery,
And scorn and coldness to the nuptial flame.

LIV.

" There's oft which, were it known, might wash away
Full half the stain of guilt: fame will not heed
The train of lesser truths, but drags to day,
And shows the shuddering world, all bare and black, the deed.

LV.

" There were who said that Imlec's life was vile,
Even when possessed of all her blooming charms:
How could she else than loathe, who knew the while
He came exhausted from an Ethiop's arms?

LVI.

" Whate'er the cause, she ever would rebel:
Yet, when increased, her loathing pleased him best;
And, for caprice or love, it so befell,
He built for her, apart from all the rest,

LVII.

" A precious palace, and a garden fair,
And gave to me the charge, from every ill
To keep and guard her well; nor ever dare,
Unless it wronged his love, to cross in aught her will.

LVIII.

" So she had founts and birds, and gems and gold;
And care of these and her was given to me;
And Imlec (in his youth a warrior bold)
Beyond the Indus went on embassy.

LIX.

" Do all I could, she sullen grew, and sad,
And very oft the public streets would see,
And oft (alas! what days of fear I had!)
Her deep disgust for Imlec spoke to me.

LX.

" I knew his jealousy, and was afraid;
For, if there fell upon her fame a breath
(While treating with the Indian king he staid),
I had been charged to answer it with death.

LXI.

" What could I? Bland Mylitta, patroness
Of rich Assyria and her glowing fair,
I sought; but no propitious sign might bless
The milk-white doves and flowers of beauty rare

LXII.

" I daily brought: the goddess scorned my pains,
And turned from all my gifts her heavenly eyes;
For yet the princess never, at her fanes,
Of her young charms had made the sacrifice

" Required of every Babylonian dame,
Whoe'er her lord or sire. This was my care;
And, when the opening of the roses came,
With many a votive wreath I led Zameia there.

LXIII.

" Oh! it was sweet to see in marble pure
The semblance of the goddess while she smiled,
As, in her own eternal power secure,
She watched the movements of her light-winged child.

LXIV.

" Nor e'er had icy marble la'en such charm;
Save that the deity once, in a dream,
Came to her sculptor all alive and warm,
And gave him power to catch each glow and gleam.

LXV.

" And seemed her lip to deeper pleasure changing,
While to her temple rushed the adoring crowd,
And groups, almost as fair as she, arranging
Their offerings at her feet, in soft submission bowed.

LXVI.

" The tender breeze, that, sighing all about,
Their musky locks with roses woven greets, —
Now whispering through the myrtle-groves without,
Now fainting with variety of sweets.

LXVII.

" A fairer scene warm Syria never shall
Behold, nor ever had beheld before.
Full many a stranger thronged the festival;
And here, whate'er their god, how could they but adore?

LXVIII.

" But of the gentle votarists, some in tears,
And lips amidst their adoration quivering,
While a soft horror in their look appears,
Do all they could, with fear and doubt were shivering.

LXIX.

" Some, formed for faith and tenderest constancy,
But to avert Heaven's anger sought the place,
And breathe for absent lord the blameless sigh,
And shudder at the stranger's rude embrace.

LXX.

" Some, in whose panting hearts the natural void
Had never yet been filled, all in a glow
Of dubious hope, their fervid thoughts employed
In picturing all they wished a moment might bestow.

LXXI.

" Full in the midst, and taller than the rest,
Zameia stood distinct; and not a sigh
Disturbed the gem that sparkled on her breast:
Her oval cheek was heightened to a dye

" That shamed the mellow vermeil of the wreath
Which in her jetty locks became her well,
And mingled fragrance with her sweeter breath;
The while her haughty lips more beautifully swell

" With consciousness of every charm's excess;
While with becoming scorn she turned her face
From every eye that darted its caress,
As if some god alone might hope for her embrace.

LXXII.

" Soon one, in dress of noble Median, came
Fresh from repose and from the bath; and he
To the warm fancy of so proud a dame,
Might well, as then he looked, be deemed a deity.

LXXIII.

" The tall Zameia, seen from all apart,
Fixed his black eye; and, as its glance she caught,
The opening lip, the involuntary start,
Spoke more than words. The stranger saw, and sought.

LXXIV.

" And, when the priest restored her to my hands, —
" Goddess, in thy propitiated power,
Let holy love now close her nuptial bands!"
So prayed I as we went. But evil was the hour

" When from her home I led her: some fell star,
That, while the sorcerer culls his herbs malign,
Favors his spell, with secret power afar
Reigned o'er that wretched princess' birth and mine.

LXXV.

" Through all the livelong night no sleep for her:
She called me to her couch at day's first beam,
But not on lord or palace to confer:
Stranger and festival, — she would no other theme.

LXXVI.

" I lent her bath of perfume every art;
I spread her banquet of the choicest store;
I bade her women touch their lutes apart,
And told her tales she never heard before.

LXXVII.

" Warbled her birds, her bubbling fountains played;
But bath and banquet all untouched remain;
And to her maidens trilling in the shade
She called impatiently to close the strain.

LXXVIII.

" And all in her neglected charms she lay:
Fever was in her veins; her pulse beat high;
And on the morning of the second day
She said, " Neantes, wilt thou see me die?"

LXXIX.

" " Die!" (so I spoke.) " Venus forfend such sight!"
" Then, if thou wilt not, O my friend!" (she said,)
" Go find the lovely Median ere 'tis night:
Nay, dear Neantes, here upon this bed

" " Else will I spill my blood. The wall is low
Nearest Euphrates; where pomegranates bloom
Among the orange-trees. Nay, wilt not go?
Look upon this! and who shall tell my doom

" " To Imlec?" Then that dagger, keen and bright,
She drew from 'neath her robe, and bade me be
Content to go and find the Mede ere night. —
Lord Imlec, this was treachery to thee!

LXXX.

" But well I knew Zameia; was afraid,
And bowed me to the earth, and said, " Then be,
Thou dearest wife of him I serve, obeyed,
Though to destruction both of thee and me.
"
LXXXI.

" She took the ruby from her neck: " Give this;
'Tis red like my life-blood, and he will know"
(She said, and gave the jewel many a kiss)
" Upon whose bosom he beheld it glow."

LXXXII.

" Then as a beggar, all in humble guise,
I sat me on the palace-steps, and thence
Beheld the stranger of the sparkling eyes
Late as he came from kingly audience.

LXXXIII.

" Then I approached, and touched the broidered tie
That bound his sandal on: he turned, and knew
The crimson token; took it silently,
And, quickly mingling with the crowd, withdrew.

LXXXIV.

" But when all passed, and I sat down alone,
He came again; but, for he knew his life
For slightest wrong to Imlec must atone,
Against the hope of bliss some doubt and fear made strife.

LXXXV.

" " Jewels," he said, " are dim to her dark eyes:
What precious gift shall match this token dear?"
" One ringlet of thy black hair she will prize,"
I said, " beyond the gems of all Ophir."

LXXXVI.

" Then I depicted how she wept and burned
And panted on her couch; nor, haply, more
Would rise again to life, when I returned,
If any poorer gift than love and hope I bore.

LXXXVII.

" " Great was the meed," I said, " the danger small;
The moon at midnight down; nor very high
Beside the river's brink her garden-wall;
And safe the path from every hand and eye."

LXXXVIII.

" So, ere he could depart, the hour of love
Was named; and this, my little Ethiop, hung
A curious chain, of silken girdles wove,
Down from the wall where light from bended date he sprung.

LXXXIX.

" Holy Euphrates lowly murmuring swept,
As if he moaned our treachery; sadlier sang
The nightingale: her watch Zameia kept
Until upon the flowers some being gently sprang.

XC.

" It was the Mede; and thrice returning night
With friendly veil of darkness hid their loves;
But soon again the crescent's silver light
Must shine upon the deeds of Imlec's weeping groves.

XCI.

" A light repast was set forth in a bower:
There sat Zameia by her lover's side,
With heart of bliss so full, it had not power
Or space for even a thought of all that might betide.

XCII.

" But Meles said, " Should I return no more,
Wouldst thou this love's excess, so dear to me,
For white-haired Imlec's coming keep in store?
Or should some other brave the peril scorned for thee?

XCIII.

" " Were it not better, if my soul could tear
It from thy sight, that Meles went his way
In peace to seek some other humbler fair?
Princess, my life and thine are forfeit if I stay."

XCIV.

" Zameia, paler than the ivory white
That formed the pillars of her couch, exclaimed,
" Do I not love thee more than life or light?
And have I lived to hear another named?

XCV.

" " Imlec to thee is nought! and all in vain
His love for me: 'tis Meles I adore.
If danger come, be mine the care and pain!
Another! — let me die, or hear that word no more!"

XCVI.

" " My own, my bright Zameia's truth," he said:
" 'Twas spoken but to prove." And then he smiled,
And her, all trembling, to the banquet led;
And love and hope are twins, and so she was beguiled.

XCVII.

" Another midnight saw them as before,
With banquet spread, and wine the lip to woo.
Zameia, 'neath her robe's adornment, wore
A steel half hid in gems: he saw it sparkle through.

XCVIII.

" But well he knew (with all the tenderness
Meet for a heart whose fires so fiercely burn)
To hush her doubts. With many a false caress
He went, and many an oath and promise of return.

XCIX.

" The bower is lit; the banquet waits; and wake
Love's votaress and her trembling slave: but where
The lover wont to come, and scarce partake
E'en of the grape's sweet blood for gazing on his fair?

" Lone passed the night. My beauteous mistress faints
Upon her couch, or fills the frighted ears
Of every slave with passionate complaints;
For darkly to her soul her boding fate appears.

C.

" Another midnight: still he had not come:
And thus she me reproached: " All had been bliss,
Neantes, but for thee. Is this my doom?
And was I made an offering but for this?"

CI.

" " Alas!" I answered, " I am but a slave,
Princess, and thine: destroy me if thou wilt.
Shall I go look for him the goddess gave?
Or for thy pleasure shall my blood be spilt?"

CII.

" The frailest hope is better than despair,
And many a life a timely word has saved.
She bade me to the palace, but not there
To find her Median more: the stream that laved

" The garden where they met, at early morn
To his own land had seen him on his way:
Nor word nor token left he, to be borne
To her who, for his sake, sickened at light of day.

CIII.

" But that it had been death to tell her then .
What means to save, alas! could I employ?
That moment came beneath a column's shade,
To rest a while, a dusky Arab boy.

CIV.

" Quick came the thought. I gave him gold, and craved
A cluster of his locks: he gave me one,
And black as earth-hid ebony it waved
Like those of Meles: thanks to thee, O Sun!

CV.

" In childhood once, slave to a scribe, I sought
To trace the character, and shape the reed;
And sometimes, when my lord beheld, he taught
A little of his art; and now it served my need.

CVI.

" The choicest of the Arab's locks I clipt,
And framed a letter as from Meles' hand;
Then a black ringlet, first in perfumes dipt,
Laid in the midst: nor words more sweet and bland

" Could Meles of the honey lip indite:
'Twas written on papyrus of the Nile,
Fragrant with rose; as opening lotos white;
And gold and silver dust in sprinkles o'er it smile.

CVII.

" 'Neath the pomegranates in the orange-shade,
Where lingered last the Median (such my plan),
Among the falling blossoms it was laid
In secret, ere I came; and thus, in promise, ran: —

CVIII.

" " Radiant Zameia, think upon the pain
I bear in telling thee how many a night
Must pass ere back to Babylon again
I come to yield my life to thy delight.

" " My soul is sick with absence, while the will
Of an unpitying sovereign bids me wait.
Preserve a little of love's balm to heal
Thy Meles, who returns at gathering of the date."

CIX.

" So, when among the flowers the scroll was flung,
Sadly I came at having found him not;
And near that wall, where silken chain was hung,
I drew Zameia. On the very spot

" Where her loved Meles spoke his last farewell
That princess kissed a camel-driver's hair!
And tears of joy (ah, too fallacious!) fell
On what a slave's poor hand had placed in pity there.

CX.

" Yet, though 'twas sad to see her so deceived,
I could but bless the tears her cheek was drinking;
For pity framed the falsehood hope believed,
And so by this slight reed her soul was saved from sinking.

CXI.

" The gathering of the sweet and savory date
Approached, and Imlec still was far away.
Zameia learned to wait and hope and wait,
And blessed the powerful Belus for his stay.

CXII.

" But as the date-tree sees her blossoms die,
And blasted on the earth her fruit's soft germ,
Unless her vegetable love come nigh
With genial power while yet endures her term;

CXIII.

" So poor Zameia's hopes, like date-buds, down
Must fall to earth unblest and immature:
Alas! unless her Meles come to crown
With fruit, hope's blossoms cannot long endure!

CXIV.

" The date was ripe and plucked; but still there came
No beauteous Mede. Zameia raged and pined,
And pined and hoped and wept. What could I frame?
With what new bland deceit bedew her withering mind?

CXV.

" Night after night she waked and waked: consumed
Her full round arms; no tulip hue upon
Her sunny cheek in changeful beauty bloomed:
She felt a dearth, a blight, and all was cold and wan.
" I trembled for her life: so when one day
She glided, pale, where full pomegranates glowed,
Among the leaves another letter lay;
And thus, as kindly as the first, it flowed: —

CXVI.

" " Adored Zameia! if thou still dost bear
Enough of love to feel a moment's pain
That Meles, still detained by toil and care,
Comes not to thee and Babylon again,
" " Though dates be plucked, I prithee wait a span:
For, when rich spices from Arabia's hills
Load for thy happy streets the caravan,
I come to keep the word my panting soul fulfils."

CXVII.

" I need not tell who placed the letter there;
And though her reason made some little strife,
By sending doubt 'gainst hope, yet from despair
A while her heart emerged; and so was saved her life.

CXVIII.

" Again she bathed her limbs, and ate her food,
And bound her streaming hair, and clasped her zone.
Like the wild courser by his wants subdued,
So stooped her soul to feed on this poor hope alone.

CXIX.

" The Median had but lightly loved; while she
Inhaled a flame that never ceased to prey
Upon her victim heart: she ceased to be,
And, severed from herself, became, that day,

" Appendage to another. Not the string
Of Meles' sandal, scarf about his waist,
Or feather for his arrows, was a thing
More wholly his than she, so proud ere love debased!

CXX.

" Euphrates' floods are swollen with timely rain;
Cassia and myrrh perfume the crowded streets;
The burthen from the camel's back is ta'en:
But Meles' footsteps press no flower in our retreats.

CXXI.

" Most wretched princess! who her state can show?
Panting with haste, a messenger arrives
To tell (oh full completion of her woe!)
That Imlec's on his way, and bids prepare his wives.

CXXII.

" " Hide me," she said, " in some dark desert cave,
Till I can look a moment on my love!
Cast me, Neantes, to Euphrates' wave
Ere Imlec come! — O Venus! can I prove

" " For Meles' ardor frenzy of the grape,
The poppy's fetid juice for Meles' breath? —
Save me, Neantes! aid me to escape!
If Imlec clasp at all, he clasps me cold in death!"

CXXIII.

" Her forceful words were true: her pale, pale cheek
And tearless eye too strong concurrence gave;
And o'erwrought passion left her form so weak,
But little more had laid it in the grave.

CXXIV.

" A curious cincture by her mother wrought,
Twined with a tress of her black hair, was thrown
To the full stream to baffle those who sought,
That by no vestige might our course be known.

CXXV.

" Enough to tell, upon a fearful night,
By the same silken chain that Meles prest,
The garden wall was scaled. Our piteous plight,
This place, O stranger! must declare the rest. "