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RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS.

Black the garden-bowers and grots

Slumber'd; the solemn palms were ranged
Above, unwoo'd of summer wind;

A sudden splendor from behind

Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green,
And, flowing rapidly between
Their interspaces, counterchanged
The level lake with diamond-plots

Of dark and bright. A lovely time,
For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead,
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid,
Grew darker from that under-flame;
So, leaping lightly from the boat,
With silver anchor left afloat,

In marvel whence that glory came
Upon me, as in sleep I sank

In cool soft turf upon the bank,
Entranced with that place and time,
So worthy of the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Thence thro' the garden I was drawn-
A realm of pleasance, many a mound,
And many a shadow-chequer'd 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 dazed 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 look'd to shame
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd
Upon the mooned domes aloof
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd
Hundreds of crescents on the roof

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Of night new-risen, that marvellous time,

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To celebrate the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Then stole I up, and trancedly
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.

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Six columns, three on either side,
Pure silver, underpropt a rich

Throne of the massive ore, from which
Down droop'd in many a floating fold,
Engarlanded and diaper'd

With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold.
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd
With merriment of kingly pride,

Sole star of all that place and time,
I saw him in his golden prime,
THE GOOD HAROUN ALRASCHID!

THE POET.

THE poet in a golden clime was born,

With golden stars above;

Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love.

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He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill,
He saw thro' his own soul.

The marvel of the everlasting will,
An open scroll,

Before him lay with echoing feet he threaded

The secretest walks of fame :

The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed
And wing'd with flame,

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue,
And of so fierce a flight,

From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung,
Filling with light

And vagrant melodies the winds which bore
Them earthward till they lit;

Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower,
The fruitful wit

Cleaving took root, and springing forth anew
Where'er they fell, behold,

Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew
A flower all gold,

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling

The winged shafts of truth,

To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring
Of Hope and Youth.

So many minds did gird their orbs with beams,

Tho' one did fling the fire.

Heaven flow'd upon the soul in

Of high desire.

many dreams