WHEN the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free

In the silken sail of infancy,

The tide of time flow'd back with me,
The forward-flowing tide of time;
And many a sheeny summer morn,
Adown the Tigris I was borne,
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold,
High-walled gardens green and old.
True Mussulman was I and sworn,
For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

10

Anight my shallop, rustling thro'

The low and bloomed foliage, drove
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove
The citron-shadows in the blue;

By garden porches on the brim,
The costly doors flung open wide,
Gold glittering thro' lamp-light dim,
And broider'd sofas on each side.

In sooth it was a goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard
The outlet, did I turn away

The boat-head down a broad canal
From the main river sluiced, where all
The sloping of the moon-lit sward
Was damask-work, and deep inlay
Of braided blooms unmown, which crept
Adown to where the water slept.
A goodly place, a goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

A motion from the river won

Ridged the smooth level, bearing on
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm,
Until another night in night

I enter'd, from the clearer light,
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm,

20

30

Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome

40

Of hollow boughs. A goodly time,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.