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Love! oh, young Love!
Why hast thou not security? Thou art
Like a bright river, on whose cour the weeds
Are thick and heavy; briars are on its banks,
And jagged stones and rocks are 'mid its waves.
Conscious of its own beauty, it will rush
Over its many obstacles, and pant
For some green valley as its quiet home.
Alas! either it rushes with a desperate leap
Over its barriers, foaming passionate,
But prisoned still; or winding languidly,
Becomes dark like Oblivion; or else wastes
Itself away.- -This is Love's history!

L. E. L.


SHE was beautiful as the lily-bosomed Houri, that gladden the visions of the Poet, when, soothed to


dreams of pleasantness and Peace, the downy pinions of Sleep wave over his turbulent soul!


She was more graceful than the Antelope; and her skin was fairer than the plumage of the billow-stemming bird of Franguestan.


Her golden ringlets streamed over her snowy and transparent shoulders, like the rich rays of the noonday sun upon a rock of the purest alabaster.


Her eyes were as two imaged stars peering from the blue depths of untroubled waters; and the vivid vermilion of her cheek was as the odour-breathing blossom of the peach.


In sorrow,―ay, and even in joy,-the heaving of her bosom was like the tremulous motion of the Lake of Pearls, when the tempest that deformed it hath passed by. But for the heart that dwelt therein,

oh, its chords were ever musical !-whether swept by the ruthless hand of Grief, or touched by the delicate fingers of Delight!


As the mysterious pebbles of Kathay yield their harmonious murmurs, whether wrought upon by the storm-blast or zephyr, so the soul of MIRZALA always responded in melody.

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The Anemone is a lovely flower, but fragile and perishing as the forms that people the day-dreams of Fancy: the wind wringeth it from its stem, and quickly whirleth it on high. Even such was the daughter of BEN AZRA, and so fared it with the maiden.


There has been mourning in the Valley of Camels; -Desolation dwelleth in the Palace of the Emir: the lute and the ziraleet are silent in his halls; the dance and the revel have ceased;-the echoes of ISRAFIL are no more. But hark to the wul-wulleh of Despair!


There is blood on the threshold of BEN AZRA,even the blood of the guiltless ABDALLAH ;-for the Prophet hath not forbidden us to love, and this was the sum of his offending. The ataghan was sheathed in his heart; his turban-stone is whitening on the hill!


O thou pervading Power of Love! Thou art to some, sweet as the bubbling fountain of freshness to the burning brow of the desert-worn traveller; but to others, terrible as the fiery pestilence, or the breath of the unmerciful Simoom!


Let Fate do her worst,

There are relics of joy,

Bright dreams of the past
Which she cannot destroy!



"REMEMBER the past!"-Oh! since Fate has bereft me Of each star that once beamed on my pathway



Since the storm is abroad, and no beacon is left me

To guide my lone bark through the waters of strife,What can still the black billow, or hush the loud blast, Like the spell that is wreathed with the thoughts of the past?

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