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He flies, he prances,
In frolic fancies,
On wave-crest dances
With pattering feet.

Hark, the rising swell,
With each nearer burst;
Like the toll of bell
Of a convent curst;
Like the billowy roar
On a storm-lash'd shore,
Now hush'd—now once more

Madd’ning to its worst.
Oh God! the deadly sound
Of the Djinns' fearful cry!
Quick, 'neath the spiral round
Of the deep staircase fly!
See, see our lamplight fade !
And of the balustrade
Mounts, mounts the circling shade
Up to the ceiling high.
'Tis the Djinns' wild streaming swarm
Whistling in their tempest flight,
Snap the tall yews ’neath the storm,
Like a pine flame crackling bright.
Swift and heavy, lo, their crowd
Through the heavens rushing loud,
Like a livid thunder cloud

With its bolt of fiery might.
Ha! they are on us, close without !
Shut tight the shelter where we lie!
With hideous din the monster rout,
Dragon and vampire, fill the sky!
The loosened rafter overhead
Trembles and bends like quivering reed,
Shakes the old door with shuddering dread,

As from its rusty hinge 'twould fly!
Wild cries of hell! voices that howl and shriek !
The horrid swarm before the tempest tossed,
Oh heaven! descends my lowly roof to seek ;
Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host.
Totters the house, as though, like dry leaf shorn
From autumn bough and on the mad blast borne,
Up from its deep foundations it were torn
To join the stormy whirl-ah! all is lost!

Oh Prophet, if thy hand but now
Save from these foul and hellish things,
A pilgrim at thy shrine I'll bow,
Laden with pious offerings.
Bid their hot breath its fiery rain
Stream on my faithful door in vain,
Vainly upon my blackened pane,
Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings !

They have passed !-and their wild legion
Cease to thunder at my door ;
Fleeting through night's rayless region,
Hither they return no more.

Clanking chains and sounds of wo
Fill the forests as they go,
And the tall oaks cower low
Bent their flaming flight before.

On! on! the storm of wings
Bears far the fiery fear,
Till scarce the breeze now brings
Dim murm'rings to the ear;
Like locust's humming hail,
Or thrash of tiny flail
Plied by the pattering hail
On some old roof-tree near.

Fainter now are borne
Fitful mutterings still ;
As when Arab horn
Swells its magic peal,
Shoreward o'er the deep
Fairy voices sweep,
And the infant's sleep
Golden visions fill !

Each deadly Djinn,
Dark child of fright,
Of death and sin,
Speeds the wild flight.
Hark, the dull moan,
Like the deep tone
Of ocean's groan,
Afar, by night!

More and more
Fades it now,
As on shore
Ripple's flow,
As the plaint
Far and faint
Of a saint
Murmured low.

Hark-hist!
Around,
I list!
The bounds

Of space

All trace
Efface
Of sound.

V.

MOONLIGHT.

Per amica silentia luna.--VIRGIL.

Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave;

At the cool casement to the evening breeze flung wide

Leans the sultana, and delights to watch the tide With band of silvery sheen yon sleeping islets lave.

From her hand as it falls, vibrates her light guitar

She listens-hark, that sound that echoes dull and low!

Is it the beat upon the Archipelago
Of some deep galley's oar, from Scio bound afar ?

Is it the cormorants whose black wings, one by one,

Cut the blue wave that o'er them breaks in liquid pearls ?

Is it some hovering djinn with whistling scream that hurls Down to the deep from yon old tower each loosened stone ?

Who thus disturbs the tide near the Seraglio?

'Tis no dark cormorants upon the sea that float'Tis no dull plunge of stones-no oars of Turkish boat With measured beat along the water sweeping slow.

'Tis heavy sacks, borne each by voiceless eunuch slave;

And could you dare to sound the depth of yon dark tide,

Something like human form would stir within its side ; Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave.

VI.

THE Veil.

Have you prayed to-night, Desdemona?-SHAKSPEARE.

SISTER.

What ails, what ails you, brothers dear?
Those knitted brows why cast ye down?
Why gleams that light of deathly fear
Neath the dark shadows of your frown?
Torn are your girdles' crimson bands;
And thrice already have I seen,
Half drawn within your shuddering hands,
Glitter your poniards' naked sheen.

ELDEST BROTHER.

Sister, hath not to-day thy veil upraised been?

SISTER.

As I returned from the bath,
From the bath, brothers, I returned,
By the mosque led my homeward path,
And fiercely down the hot noon burned;
In my uncovered palanquin,
Safe from all eye of infidel,
I gasped for air-I dreamed no sin-
My veil a single instant fell.

SECOND BROTHER.

A man was passing ?-in green caftan ?--sister, tell!

SISTER.

Yes, yes-perhaps—but his bold eye
Saw not the blush upon my cheek-
Why speak ye thus aside-oh, why,
Brothers, aside do ye thus speak ?
Will ye my blood ?-oh hear me swear,
He saw me not he could not see!
Mercy !-will ye refuse to spare
Weak woman helpless on her knee ?

THIRD BROTHER.

When sank the sun to-night, in robe of red was he!

SISTER.

Mercy !-oh, grant me, grant me grace!
Oh God! four poniards in my side!
Ah! by your knees which I embrace-
- My veil! my veil of snowy pride!
Fly me not now !-in blood I swim!
Support, support my sinking head!
For o'er my eyes now dark and dim,
Brothers, the veil of death is spread.

FOURTH BROTHER.

That veil at least is one thou ne'er shalt lift again!

VII.

Tue FAVORITE SULTANA.

Treacherous as the wave.--Shakspeare.
Have I not, lovely Jewess, say,

Enough thinned my Seraglio ?
Dearest, ah, cease to bid me slay!
Must every flirt of thy fan's play

Be followed by a headsman's blow?

Nay, rest a while, oh beauteous one,

Nor my poor flock devour quite !
Thine, thine, thou knowest, thine alone,
My heart, my soul, my realm, my throne,

Why beg a death of me each night?

'Tis I, 'tis I that now entreat

Full half of them already dead;
When you come nestling at my feet
So tenderly, with Jook so sweet,

I always know you want a head.

Ah, jealousest of jealous wives !

So fair and yet so fierce beside !
Canst thou not spare their humble lives?
Unharmed the lowly grass-flower thrives

Beneath the rose's queenly pride.
VOL. XIII.-NO. LXIV.

25

Am I not thine? Why carest thou,

Enfolded thus within my arms,
If in my wide Seraglio,
A hundred pretty slaves or so

Sigh o'er their unregarded charms ?

In their unbroken solitude,

In hopeless envy let them pine ; Let them pass by, as flows the flood Thou smilest on in idle mood

Is not my every hour thine ?

Thine all the realm that kneels to me

Stamboul, whose thousand spires leap
Skyward, so tall and arrowy,
That, cradled fair upon the sea,

It seems an anchored fleet asleep!

Thine my red-turbaned Spahis fleet,

Thine, ne'er a rival sway to know,
As stream their swift mares' mingling feet,
Each gallant rider in his seat

Like rower to his oar bent low!

Thine, thine, Bassora, Trebisond,

Cyprus, where names of old are graved, Fez, where rich sands of gold abound, Mozul, where a world's mart is found,

Erzéroum, with its streets all paved!

Thine Smyrna, all so fair outspread,

Smiling above her foam-white shore ; Ganges, the Hindoo widow's dread, And Danube, from whose mighty bed

Into the sea five rivers pour !

Say! fearest thou Ionia's maid ?

Damanhour's lily pale and bland ? Or flaming eye and brow of shade By Ethiopia's sun-blaze made,

Like tigress of the same dark land?

Then on these humble flowers here

Cease to call down the tempest's might;
Enjoy thy conquest free from fear,
Nor claim a head for every tear

That dims those soft eyes' liquid light.

Thy bowers—the baths where thou dost lave

Thy gems-with these thy dreams be filled Thy fairy barks upon the wave; The Sultan must Sultanas have,

As pearls must deck the poniard's hilt.

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