THE LAMENT OF THE PERI FOR HINDA.

The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses
Her dark flowing hair for some festival day,
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,
She mournfully turns from the mirror away.

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her Hero, forget thee,

Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start: Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee, Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell!-be it ours to embellish thy pillow

With everything beauteous that grows in the deep; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the hollow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber

That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept;
With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed chamber
We Peris of Ocean by moonlight have slept.

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head;

We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

Farewell! farewell! until Pity's sweet fountain

Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain, They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.

The Enchantress of the Flowers.

HER glance

Spoke something, past all mortal pleasures, As, in a kind of holy trance,

She hung above those fragrant treasures, Bending to drink their balmy airs,

As if she mixed her soul with theirs.

And 't was, indeed, the perfume shed

From flowers and scented flame that fed
Her charmed life-for none had e'er
Beheld her taste of mortal fare,
Nor ever in aught earthly dip,
But the morn's dew, her roseate lip.
Filled with the cool, inspiring smell,
Th' Enchantress now begins her spell,
Thus singing, as she winds and weaves
In mystic form the glittering leaves:

"I know where the wingèd visions dwell
That around the night-bed play;

I know each herb and floweret's bell,
Where they hide their wings by day.
Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

"The image of love, that nightly flies.

To visit the bashful maid,

Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs

Its soul, like her, in the shade.

The hope, in dreams, of a happier hour
That alights on Misery's brow

Springs out of the silvery almond flower,
That blooms on a leafless bough.

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

"The visions that oft to worldly eyes

The glitter of mines unfold,

Inhabit the mountain herb that dyes
The tooth of the fawn like gold.

The phantom shapes-oh, touch not them-
That appal the murderer's sight,

Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem,
That shrieks, when torn at night!
Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

An Angel in the House.

Yow sweet it were, if without feeble fright,

Or dying of the beauteous, dreadful sight,
An angel came to us, and we could bear
To see him issue from the silent air
At evening in our room, and bend on ours
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers
News of dear friends and children who have never
Been dead indeed, as we shall know for ever.
Alas! we think not what we daily see
About our hearths,-angels that are to be,
Or may be if they will; and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air,-
A child a friend, a wife, whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, waiting for future wings.

The lot of Thalaba;

There might his soul develop best

Its strengthening energies;

There might he from the world

Keep his heart pure and uncontaminate,