And thus it proved, when from behind
The sacred Harem's curtain'd shades,
A blooming group was seen to wind,
Of Iran's and of Yemen's maids,
Footing it on the marble floor

With step so delicately light,

As would not crush the tenderest flower
That fears to ope its leaves till night.
There was a likeness in that sight
To scenes she oft had view'd before,
When in her own dear native land

Among the comates of her youth
Through the gay valleys hand in hand,
At eve she led the laughing band

Over the green sward cool and smooth; And o'er her cheek that mindfulness,

Midst all the mirth and revel here, Dash'd the salt spray of many a tear.Could it from any eyelid less,

That oped not on one object dear ;On one the heart could wish to bless,

On one it loved with soul sincere? For Zella breathed a warmer sigh Than that for childhood's hour gone by. "Oh! Selim, Selim! where art thou?" She inly cried," I'd rather gaze "A moment on the dark eye now "That flashes from under thy manly brow,

"Than all these bright-lamps' dazzling blaze;—

"I'd rather hear one angel tone

"Of thy loved voice in desert lone,

"Than all the notes now gaily ringing

66 Through this high and princely hall,
"Where pleasure seems to shine on all,
"From yonder virgin-minstrel singing."
And yet it was a thrilling strain

That Zella deem'd so lowly of,
And might have lighten'd any pain
But from the rankling wound of love,
Which, like the flower-fed insect, brings
At once life's sweetness and its stings.
And lovely was the maid who swept
With magic touch the silver strings,
Whilst all such deep attention kept
As when the Soul of Music sings,

Where none but angels whose eyes are glistening, Like their own high towers of gems are listening,

From her own Yemen's happy vales

The girl was borne by hostile sails;

Wild as the goats that clamber o'er
Her native crags so steep and hoar,
Yet graceful as the antelope

That springs along the mountain slope,
And here her dulcet minstrelsy,
Which o'er her fellows raised her high
Oft soothed her long captivity.
She paused a moment,-till the tone
Of that preluding strain had died
Away, while rising murmurs own
The tuneful power on every side,-
Then playfully off the mask she drew
With which Arabian maids are shaded,

And blushingly disclosed to view

A face where not a rose had faded;

And with a voice, whose every note
Was heavenly as the sounds that float
On the charm'd lake of Chindara,
She warbled forth this joyous lay.

"Ye children of pleasure, come hasten away,Yet how shall we roam o'er an Eden like ours, Where a charm at each footstep invites us to stay, And each moment is fraught with the pleasures of hours?

Here all sunny hearts one emotion pervades,

It heaves the smooth bosom, and lights the

dark eye,

While the whisper'd consent of the bashfullest maid,

Like the airy lute's music is won by a sigh. Then let spirit and senses one rapture employ, And melt in delight ere its ardour be cold, Till our souls are o'erwhelm'd by the fullness of joy, As the camel bends under his burden of gold." Applauding clamors rose around,

And broke the tenor of her song;

The tapers trembled at the sound
That swept the vaulted roof along ;
And e'en the lovely minstrel maid
Was at the tumult half dismay'd,

And round the group her large eye strays,
In doubt whereon to fix its gaze,
And seek a refuge from the fire,
She saw her magic strains inspire
In every face she look'd upon,
Too boldly bent upon her own.

She had not learnt the fearless look

That beams on all as none were by, Nor could she yet, unblushing, brook The stare of wild impurity;

But turn'd an instant to the sky

Which through the casement still was bright,
Then seem'd to mete the chamber's height,
Now, restless, on the floor she bent,-
With pictured forms and gold besprent,―
That hurried glance, half-pleased, half-righted,
Which now on Zella's wan cheek lighted.
Her soul was pure as new-sprung fountain,
And like the calm wave at the base
Of frowning rock on flowery mountain,
Whose colours tint the watery glass,
Her floating eye would instant catch
Whate'er expression lit another,
And all its own emotions smother,
So kindly would she ever watch,
And many a smile she oft repressed,
In fear to mock the aching breast,
By mirth in hour unmeet exprest.
And thus it was when, 'midst the gladness
The time, her youth, and praise, inspired,

She look'd upon a sister's sadness,

For each ecstatic thought retired;
And when she struck the lyre again,
"Twas not in that exulting measure,

But the sad softness of the strain
Flow'd rather like the balm of pain,

Than the rich maddening draught of pleasure; Yet still it had the fading glow,

Like the last hue of Autumn-leaves,
Ere ice-drops gem the sparkling eaves,
In climes that wear the veil of snow.

European Magazine.

SUPPOSED TO BE

SUNG BY THE WIFE OF A JAPANESE,

Who had accompanied the Russians to their Country.

The following lines breathe more of imagination and romance than of real passion, which would seem not to be in good taste, as the heart, when it is deeply sunk with grief and affliction, seldom chooses to wander into the wizard retreats of fancy. Here, however, it is justifiable, for when the original intensity of passion is subdued by long disappointment, and softened by some faint glimpses of distant hope, imagination resumes her sway, and soothes affliction by her fairy images.

I look through the mist and I see thee not―
Are thy home and thy love so soon forgot?
Sadly closes the weary day,

And still thy bark is far away!

The tents are ready, the mats are spread,

The Saranna is plucked for thee.

Alas! what fate has thy baidare led

So far from thy home and me?

t

Has my bower no longer charms for thee?
Where the purple jessamines twine

Round the stately, spreading, cedar tree,

And rest in its arms so tenderly,

As I have reposed in thine.