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The beautiful blue-damsel flies,
That flutter'd round the jasmine stems,
Like wingèd flowers or flying gems :-
And, near the boy, who tir'd with play
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount

From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount

Impatient fling him down to drink. Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd

To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd

Upon a brow more fierce than that,-
Sullenly fierce-a mixture dire,
Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire;
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;
The ruin'd maid—the shrine profan'd-
Oaths broken and the threshold stain'd
With blood of guests !—there written, all,
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing Angel's pen,
Ere Mercy weeps them out again!

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Yet tranquil now that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Soften'd his spirit) look'd and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play :-
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance

Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches, that have burnt all night
Through some impure and godless rite,

Encounter morning's glorious rays.

But hark! the vesper call to prayer,

As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,

From Syria's thousand minarets !
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping th' eternal name of God

From Purity's own cherub mouth, And looking, while his hands and eyes Are lifted to the glowing skies, Like a stray babe of Paradise, Just lighted on that flowery plain, And seeking for its home again. Oh, 'twas a sight—that Heav'n-that child A scene, which might have well beguild Ev'n haughty Eblis of a sigh For glories lost and peace gone by! And how felt he, the wretched Man Reclining there—while memory ran O'er many a year of guilt and strife, Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, Nor found one sunny resting-place, Nor brought him back one branch of grace ? “There was a time,” he said, in mild, Heart-humbled tones—thou blessed child ! When, young and haply pure as thou, I look'd and pray'd like thee-but nowHe hung his head-each nobler aim

And hope and feeling, which had slept From boyhood's hour, that instant came

Fresh o'er him, and he wept-he wept !

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Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!

In whose benign, redeeming flow Is felt the first, the only sense

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. “There's a drop," said the Peri, “that down

from the moon
Falls through the withering airs of June
Upon Egypt's land, of so healing a power,
So balmy a virtue, that ev'n in the hour
That drop descends, contagion dies,
And health re-animates earth and skies !
Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin,

The precious tears of repentance fall ?
Though foul thy fiery plagues within,

One heavenly drop hath dispell’d them all!” And now-behold him kneeling there By the child's side, in humble prayer, While the same sunbeam shines upon The guilty and the guiltless one, And hymns of joy proclaim through Heaven The triumph of a Soul Forgiven ! 'Twas when the golden orb had set, While on their knees they linger'd yet, There fell a light more lovely far Than ever came from sun or star, Upon the tear that, warm and meek, Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek. To mortal eye this light might seem A northern flash or meteor beamBut well th' enraptured Peri knew 'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear Her harbinger of glory near!

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“Joy, joy for ever! my task is done
The Gates are pass'd, and Heaven is won!
Oh! am I not happy ? I am, I a

To thee, sweet Eden ! how dark and sad
Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam,

And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad !

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"Farewell, ye odours of Earth, that die,
Passing away like a lover's sigh ;-
My feast is now of the Tooba Tree,?
Whose scent is the breath of Eternity!

"Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone

In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief ;-
Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown,
To the lote-tree, springing by Alla's throne,&

Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf!
Joy, joy for ever!—my task is done-
The Gates are pass'd, and Heav'n is won!”

II.

THE FIRE WORSHIPPERS.

(A SELECTION.) She loves—but knows not whom she loves,

Nor what his race, nor whence he came ;Like one who meets, in Indian groves,

Some beauteous bird, without a name,
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze,
From isles in the undiscover'd seas,
To show his plumage for a day
To wondering eyes, and wing away!
Will he thus fly-her nameless lover ?

Alla forbid ! 'twas by a moon
As fair as this, while singing over

Some ditty to her soft Kanoon, Alone, at this same witching hour,

She first beheld his radiant eyes
Gleam through the lattice of the bower,

Where nightly now they mix their sighs ;
And thought some spirit of the air
(For what could waft a mortal there ?)
Was pausing on his moonlight way
To listen to her lonely lay!
This fancy ne'er hath left her mind :

And—though, when terror's swoon had past, She saw a youth, of mortal kind,

Before her in obeisance cast, Yet cften since, when he hath spoken Strange, awful words,-and gleams have broken From his dark eyes, too bright to bear,

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