I moved, and could not feel my limbs, I was so light-almost

I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost.

And soon I heard a roaring wind:
It did not come anear;

But with its sound it shook the sails,
That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life!

And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about, And to and fro, and in and out,

The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud,
And the sails did sigh like sedge;
And the rain poured down from one black
The Moon was at its edge. [cloud;

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
The Moon was at its side:
Like waters shot from some high crag
The lightning fell with never a jag,
A river steep and wide.

The loud wind never reached the ship,.
Yet now the ship moved on!
Beneath the lightning and the Moon

The dead men gave a groan.

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
Nor spake nor moved their eyes:
It had been strange, even in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on,
Yet never a breeze up blew;
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,
Where they were wont to do:
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools-
We were a ghastly crew.

The body of my brother's son

Stood by me, knee to knee:
The body and I pulled at one rope,
But he said nought to me.

"I fear thee, ancient Mariner!"

Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses come again,

But a troop of spirits blest;

For when it dawned-they dropped their And clustered round the mast; [arms, Sweet sounds rose slowly through their And from their bodies passed. [mouths,

Around, around flew each sweet sound,
Then darted to the Sun;
Slowly the sounds came back again,
Now mixed, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the skylark sing;
Sometimes all little birds that are,
How they seemed to fill the sea and air
With their sweet jargoning!

And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute,

And now it is an angel's song

That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on
A pleasant noise till noon,-
A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailèd on,

Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath.

Under the keel, nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The spirit slid; and it was he

That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune, And the ship stood still alsò.

The Sun, right up above the mast,
Had fixed her to the ocean;
But in a minute she 'gan stir

With a short uneasy motionBackwards and forwards half her length, With a short uneasy motion.

Then, like a pawing horse let go,
She made a sudden bound;
It flung the blood into my head,
And I fell down in a swound.

How long in that same fit I lay
I have not to declare;
But ere my living life returned,
I heard and in my soul discerned
Two voices in the air.

"Is it he?" quoth one. "Is this the man? By Him who died on cross,

With his cruel bow he laid full low
The harmless Albatross.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous
rills

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing

tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

[slanted But oh! that deep romantic chasm which Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, [breathing, As if this earth in fast thick pants were A mighty fountain momently was forced, Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail; And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and It flung up momently the sacred river. [ever Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river [man,

ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean; And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves,
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

THOMAS MOORE.

1779-1852.

NOURMAHAL

AND THE ENCHANTRESS.

'TWAS midnight-through the lattice, wreathed

With woodbine, many a perfume breathed
From plants that wake when others sleep
From timid jasmine-buds that keep
Their odour to themselves all day,
But, when the sunlight dies away,
Let the delicious secret out

To every breeze that roams about ;-
When thus Namouna:- -"Tis the hour
That scatters spells on herb and flower,
And garlands might be gathered now,
That, twined around the sleeper's brow,
Would make him dream of such delights,
Such miracles and dazzling sights,
As Genii of the Sun behold,
At evening, from their tents of gold,
Upon the horizon-where they play
Till twilight comes, and, ray by ray,
Their sunny mansions melt away!
Now, too, a chaplet might be wreathed
Of buds o'er which the moon has breathed,
Which worn by her whose love has strayed,
Might bring some Peri from the skies,
Some sprite, whose very soul is made
Of flowerets' breaths and lovers' sighs.
And who might tell-

"For me, for me," Cried Nourmahal impatiently,"Oh! twine that wreath for me to-night." Then, rapidly, with foot as light As the young musk-roe's, out she flew To cull each shining leaf that grew Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams. Anemones, and Seas of Gold,

And new-blown lilies of the river,
And those sweet flowerets, that unfold
Their buds on Camadeva's quiver;
The tuberose, with her silvery light,

That in the gardens of Malay
Is called the Mistress of the Night,
So like a bride, scented and bright,

She comes out when the sun's away;
Amaranths, such as crown the maids
That wander through Zamara's shades;
And the white moon-flower, as it shows
On Serendib's high crags to those
Who near the isle at evening sail,
Scenting her clove-trees in the gale;-

In short, all flowerets and all plants
From the divine Amrita-tree,
That blesses heaven's inhabitants
With fruits of immortality,
Down to the basil-tuft, that waves
Its fragrant blossom over graves,
And to the humble rosemary,
Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed
To scent the desert and the dead,-
All in that garden bloom, and all
Are gathered by young Nourmahal,
Who heaps her baskets with the flowers
And leaves, till they can hold no more;
Then to Namouna flies, and showers
Upon her lap the shining store.

With what delight th' Enchantress views
So many buds, bathed with the dews
And beams of that blessed hour! her glance
Spoke something, past all mortal plea-

sures,

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 'twas, 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,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The dream of the injured, patient mind, That smiles at the wrongs of men,

Is found in the bruised and wounded rind Of the cinnamon, sweetest then!

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

No sooner was the flowery crown
Placed on her head, than sleep came down,
Gently as nights of summer fall,
Upon the lids of Nourmahal;
And, suddenly a tuneful breeze,
As full of small rich harmonies
As ever wind, that o'er the tents
Of Azab blew, was full of scents,
Steals on her ear, and floats and swells,
Like the first air of morning creeping
Into those wreathy Red-Sea shells,

Where Love himself of old lay sleeping;
And now a spirit formed, 'twould seem,
Of music and of light, so fair,
So brilliantly his features beam,

And such a sound is in the air Of sweetness, when he waves his wings, Hovers around her, and thus sings :

From Chindara's warbling fount I come, Called by that moonlight garland's spell; From Chindara's fount, my fairy home,

Where in music, morn and night, I dwell.
Where lutes in the air are heard about,
And voices are singing the whole day long,
And every sigh the heart breathes out
Is turned, as it leaves the lips, to song!
Hither I come

From my fairy home,
And if there's a magic in music's strain,
I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath,
Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

For mine is the lay that lightly floats,
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes,

That fall as soft as snow on the sea,
And melt in the heart as instantly!
And the passionate strain that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through,
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too!

Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway
The Spirits of past Delight obey ;-
Let but the tuneful talisman sound,
And they come, like Genii, hovering round.
And mine is the gentle song, that bears
From soul to soul the wishes of love,
As a bird, that wafts through genial airs
The cinnanon-seed from grove to grove.

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure The past, the present, and future of plea

sure;

When memory links the tone that is gone With the blissful tone that's still in the

ear;

And hope from a heavenly note flies on To a note more heavenly still that is near!

The warrior's heart when touched by me, Can as downy soft and as yielding be As his own white plume, that high amid death [with a breath. Through the field has shone-yet moves And, oh, how the eyes of beauty glisten

When music has reached her inmost soul, Like the silent stars, that wink and listen While heaven's eternal melodies roll! So hither I come From my fairy home,

And if there's a magic in music's strain, I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath, Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

PARADISE AND THE PERI.* NOW UPON Syria's land of roses Softly the light of eve reposes, And, like a glory, the broad sun Hangs over sainted Lebanon, Whose head in wintry grandeur towers, And whitens with eternal sleet, While summer, in a vale of flowers,

Is sleeping rosy at his feet. To one who looked from upper air O'er all th' enchanted regions there, How beauteous must have been the glow, The life, the sparkling from below!

* She is seeking an offering which will admit her to Paradise.

Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks
Of golden melons on their banks,
More golden where the sunlight falls;-
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls
Of ruined shrines, busy and bright;
As they were all alive with light;-
And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks
Of pigeons, settling on the rocks,
With their rich restless wings, that gleam
Variously in the crimson beam
Of the warm west,-as if inlaid
With brilliants from the mine, or made
Of tearless rainbows, such as span
Th' unclouded skies of Peristan!
And then, the mingling sounds that come,
Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum
Of the wild bees of Palestine

Banqueting through the flowery vales; And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, And woods, so full of nightingales!

But nought can charm the luckless Peri;
Her soul is sad-her wings are weary-
Joyless she sees the sun look down
On that great Temple, once his own,
Whose lonely columns stand sublime,
Flinging their shadows from on high,
Like dials, which the wizard, Time,

Had raised to count his ages by!

Yet haply there may lie concealed
Beneath those chambers of the sun,
Some amulet of gems, annealed,
In upper fires, some tablet sealed

With the great name of Solomon,
Which spelled by her illumined eyes,
May teach her where, beneath the moon,
In earth or ocean, lies the boon,
The charm that can restore so soon
An erring Spirit to the skies!

Cheered by this hope, she bends her thither;

Still laughs the radiant eye of heaven, Nor have the golden bowers of even In the rich west begun to wither; When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging Slowly, she sees a child at play, Among the rosy wild flowers singing, As rosy and as wild as they; Chasing with eager hands and eyes, The beautiful blue damsel-flies, That fluttered round the jasmine-stems Like winged flowers or flying gems. And, near the boy, who, tired 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 turned
To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath day-beam burned
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 ruined maid-the shrine profaned-
Oaths broken-and the threshold stained
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!
Yet tranquil now that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening-time
Softened his spirit) looked 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! [child-
Oh! 'twas a sight that heaven- that
A scene which might have well beguiled
E'en 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 blessèd

child!