And many a shadow-checkered lawn
Full of the city's stilly sound,
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round
The stately cedar, tamarisks,
Thick rosaries of scented thorn,
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks,
Graven with emblems of the time,
In honor of the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.
With dazéd vision unawares
From the long alley's latticed shade
Emerged, I came upon the great
Pavilion of the Caliphat.
Right to the carven cedarn doors,
Flung inward over spangled floors,
Broad-based flights of marble stairs
Ran up with golden balustrade,
After the fashion of the time,
And humor of the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.
The fourscore windows all alight
As with the quintessence of flame,
A million tapers flaring bright
From twisted silvers looked to shame
The hollow-vaulted dark, and streamed
Upon the moonéd domes aloof
In inmost Bagdat, till there seemed
Hundreds of crescents on the roof
Of night new-risen, that marvellous time
To celebrate the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Then stole I up, and trancédly
Gazed on the Persian girl alone,
Serene with argent-lidded eyes
Amorous, and lashes like to rays
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl
Tressed with redolent ebony,
In many a dark delicious curl,
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone;
The sweetest lady of the time,
Well worthy of the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Six columns, three on either side,
Pure silver, underpropt a rich
Throne of the massive ore, from which
Down-drooped, in many a floating fold,
Engarlanded and diapered
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold.
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirred
With merriment of kingly pride,
Sole star of all that place and time.
I saw him in his golden prime,
The good Haroun Alraschid !
TILL on we press, and now the ruddy beam
To amber turns swift Tigris' arrowy stream,
Shines on famed Bagdad's walls, and bathes with fire
Each gilded dome, and crescent-mounted spire.
Romantic Bagdad! name to childhood dear,
Awaking terror's thrill and pity's tear;
For there the sorcerer gloomed, the genii dwelt,
And Love and Worth to good Al Rashid knelt;
Prince of the Thousand Tales! whose glorious reign
So brightly shines in fancy's fair domain !
Whose noble deeds still Arab minstrels sing,
Who rivalled all but Gallia's knightly king.
Yonder where fountains gush and yew-trees weep,
Watch o'er his harem-queen doth Azrael keep;
Yes, morn's rich hues illume that sacred pile,
Like beams shed down by some blest angel's smile, -
Where fair Zobeida, shrined in odor, lies:
Her soul long since in starry Paradise.
A STORY OF THE ASSYRIAN DESERT.
HE black-eyed children of the Desert drove
Their flocks together at the set of sun.
The tents were pitched: the weary camels bent
Their suppliant necks, and knelt upon the sand;
The hunters quartered by the kindled fires
The wild boars of the Tigris they had slain,
And all the stir and sound of evening ran
Throughout the Shammar camp. The dewy air
Bore its full burden of confused delight
Across the flowery plain, and while, afar,
The snows of Koordish mountains in the ray
Flashed roseate amber, Nimroud's ancient mound
Rose broad and black against the burning West.
The shadows deepened, and the stars came out
Sparkling in violet ether; one by one
Glimmered the ruddy camp-fires on the plain,
And shapes of steed and horseman moved among
The dusky tents with shout and jostling cry,
And neigh and restless prancing. Children ran
To hold the thongs, while every rider drove
His quivering spear in the earth, and by his door
Tethered the horse he loved. In midst of all
Stood Shammeriyah, whom they dared not touch,—
The foal of wondrous Kubleh, to the Sheik
A dearer wealth than all his Georgian girls.
But when their meal was o'er, when the red fires
Blazed brighter, and the dogs no longer bayed, --
When Shammar hunters with the boys sat down
To cleanse their bloody knives, came Alimàr,
The poet of the tribe, whose songs of love
Are sweeter than Bassora's nightingales,-
Whose songs of war can fire the Arab blood
'Like war itself: who knows not Alimàr?
Then asked the men: "O poet, sing of Kubleh!"
And boys laid down the knives half burnished, saying,
"Tell us of Kubleh, whom we never saw,
Of wondrous Kubleh!" Closer flocked the group
With eager eyes about the flickering fire,
While Alimàr, beneath the Assyrian stars,
Sang to the listening Arabs :
O Arabs, never yet since Mahmoud rode
The sands of Yemen, and by Mecca's gate
The wingéd steed bestrode, whose mane of fire
Blazed up the zenith, when, by Allah called,
He bore the Prophet to the walls of heaven,
Was like to Kubleh, Sofuk's wondrous mare:
Not all the milk-white barbs, whose hoofs dashed flame
In Bagdad's stables from the marble floor-
Who, swathed in purple housings, pranced in state
The gay bazaars, by great Al-Raschid backed:
Not the wild charger of Mongolian breed
That went o'er half the world with Tamerlane:
Nor yet those flying coursers, long ago
From Ormuz brought by swarthy Indian grooms
To Persia's kings the foals of sacred mares,
Sired by the fiery stallions of the sea!
"Who ever told, in all the Desert Land, The many deeds of Kubleh? Who can tell Whence came she, whence her like shall come again? O Arabs, like a tale of Scherezade
Heard in the camp, when javelin shafts are tried On the hot eve of battle, is her story.
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