 | The Village Churchyard |  |
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THE SULTANA'S LAMENTATION.
Where falling orange-blossoms load the ground;
Where jasmines wreathe their silvery crests around
The lightly-clustered pillars, smooth and white,
That gleaming, prop a fairy-fabric slight—
(A bowered kiosk; such as a Sorceress-Queen,
Who midst the old Genii-gardens oft had been,
Might covet, placed in such enchanted scene!)
Where fountains, fed with scented waters, play;
And trellised roses, shut out half the day,
And make a crimson twilight of the rest—
Even of the glowing sunshine of the East!
On golden cushions (wrought with broideries rare,
And stained with thousand rainbow-colours fair)
The young Sultana mournfully reclines,
Nor heeds the scene, that round her smiles and shines.
Some dear delusion, surely doth enchain
Her thoughts—some vision flits across her brain!
Of aëry images, some dreamy train
Wins her to disregard all things beside;
She, the great Sultan's crowned and honoured Bride!
She sweeps her pale hand o'er her jewelled lute;
Why are the unthrobbing chords still hushed and mute,
As loth to awaken in the stranger's land?
Alas! so tremulously falls that hand,
The slumbering strings scarce murmur, in reply,
Tones like the echo of her own faint sigh!
Till wildly bending o'er those rebel chords,
Her bosomed grief found way, in rushing words.
Where jasmines wreathe their silvery crests around
The lightly-clustered pillars, smooth and white,
That gleaming, prop a fairy-fabric slight—
(A bowered kiosk; such as a Sorceress-Queen,
Who midst the old Genii-gardens oft had been,
Might covet, placed in such enchanted scene!)
Where fountains, fed with scented waters, play;
And trellised roses, shut out half the day,
And make a crimson twilight of the rest—
Even of the glowing sunshine of the East!
On golden cushions (wrought with broideries rare,
And stained with thousand rainbow-colours fair)
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Nor heeds the scene, that round her smiles and shines.
Some dear delusion, surely doth enchain
Her thoughts—some vision flits across her brain!
Of aëry images, some dreamy train
Wins her to disregard all things beside;
She, the great Sultan's crowned and honoured Bride!
She sweeps her pale hand o'er her jewelled lute;
Why are the unthrobbing chords still hushed and mute,
As loth to awaken in the stranger's land?
Alas! so tremulously falls that hand,
The slumbering strings scarce murmur, in reply,
Tones like the echo of her own faint sigh!
Till wildly bending o'er those rebel chords,
Her bosomed grief found way, in rushing words.
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My lute—my own loved lute! dost thou my soul's despondence share?
Hast thou, indeed, no gladdening sounds for this unkindly air?
Oh! breathe one last and passionate strain, of blessings and farewells;
While in responses faint, but deep, my heart accordant swells!
Hast thou, indeed, no gladdening sounds for this unkindly air?
Oh! breathe one last and passionate strain, of blessings and farewells;
While in responses faint, but deep, my heart accordant swells!
And a thousand thousand dreams and thoughts, at thine every tone shall rise,
Of mine own dear country's flowery plains, and its blue, rejoicing skies:
Oh! may Happiness for ever dwell, with its tenderest transports, there!
Though, alas for me! that happiness I may not see nor share!
Of mine own dear country's flowery plains, and its blue, rejoicing skies:
Oh! may Happiness for ever dwell, with its tenderest transports, there!
Though, alas for me! that happiness I may not see nor share!
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Let me sing to thee, my own loved lute, of the bright and joyous Past;
Of those hopes, like birds of Paradise, whose flight was all too fast;
Of my childhood's old, familiar haunts; of all vanished things, and dear;
And of all my wild enjoyments there, and all my sorrows here!
Of those hopes, like birds of Paradise, whose flight was all too fast;
Of my childhood's old, familiar haunts; of all vanished things, and dear;
And of all my wild enjoyments there, and all my sorrows here!
Let me sing to thee! but changed and sad, my lute, thy tones seem now;
Burdened with dreamy mournfulness; and dull, and faint, and slow.
Hath thy soul of Music died away, 'neath a weight of breathless gloom;
As the music of my soul hath died, far from my happy home?
Burdened with dreamy mournfulness; and dull, and faint, and slow.
Hath thy soul of Music died away, 'neath a weight of breathless gloom;
As the music of my soul hath died, far from my happy home?
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And yet these broken, murmuring sounds,—these whisperings, faint and low,
Better beseem the outpourings of my wild and wayward woe;
And yet these fitful-moaning strains, these lingering melodies,
Seem more the echoes of my thoughts, the language of my sighs.
Better beseem the outpourings of my wild and wayward woe;
And yet these fitful-moaning strains, these lingering melodies,
Seem more the echoes of my thoughts, the language of my sighs.
And in the shadow of the Past, let me fondly sit, and dream,
Till I hear the very warble sweet, of my own blue, wandering stream;
The low shiver of my casement-leaves, and the tinkling of the bells,
That I hung around your graceful necks, my beautiful gazelles!
Till I hear the very warble sweet, of my own blue, wandering stream;
The low shiver of my casement-leaves, and the tinkling of the bells,
That I hung around your graceful necks, my beautiful gazelles!
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Ah! how could I keep ye prisoners, then—ye gentle, gladsome things;
Whose joy was still to shoot along, as on the wind's swift wings!
But I little knew, then, that which now I too well and wildly know—
The dreariment of a trammelled life—the captive's feverish woe!
Whose joy was still to shoot along, as on the wind's swift wings!
But I little knew, then, that which now I too well and wildly know—
The dreariment of a trammelled life—the captive's feverish woe!
Now, I could not even a wandering bird, to soothe my griefs, detain;
Nor any breathing thing of life, unpityingly enchain:
Too much I've learned in thee—oh, my Palaceprison—my proud Tomb—
The misery, the monotony, the horrors of such doom!
Nor any breathing thing of life, unpityingly enchain:
Too much I've learned in thee—oh, my Palaceprison—my proud Tomb—
The misery, the monotony, the horrors of such doom!
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Hark! what sounds of silvery laughter come, lightfloating on the breeze,
From where my Odalisque-companions stray, 'midst the flowering orange-trees!
Ah! how few, like me, thus bitterly, thus languishingly mourn,
For that severed Land of Love to which they never can return!
From where my Odalisque-companions stray, 'midst the flowering orange-trees!
Ah! how few, like me, thus bitterly, thus languishingly mourn,
For that severed Land of Love to which they never can return!
No! they lightly raise the choral soung, and weave the festal dance,
With the summer's rose upon their cheek, and its day-spring in their glance;
And they bend, in beauty and in joy, o'er the labours of the loom,
As though 't were nought to pine and wail for the parted world of Home!
With the summer's rose upon their cheek, and its day-spring in their glance;
And they bend, in beauty and in joy, o'er the labours of the loom,
As though 't were nought to pine and wail for the parted world of Home!
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And they tell the thousand Genii-tales, of Magic and of Love;
And stories frame, of the olden time, in the many-whispering grove;
And wreathe the jewelled coronet around their queen-like foreheads fair;
And laugh and play, as 't were a jest to droop for Home's blest air!
And stories frame, of the olden time, in the many-whispering grove;
And wreathe the jewelled coronet around their queen-like foreheads fair;
And laugh and play, as 't were a jest to droop for Home's blest air!
And yet some have come from far-off lands, and sweet, sweet friends, and dear;
How is it, that so soon have dried the fountains of Love's tear?
Would they could teach me how to smile, to sing, and to forget!
Yet, heart of mine! wouldst cancel thus Affection's hallowed debt?
How is it, that so soon have dried the fountains of Love's tear?
Would they could teach me how to smile, to sing, and to forget!
Yet, heart of mine! wouldst cancel thus Affection's hallowed debt?
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Alas! until the grave is shut, o'er the passion of my grief,
I feel—I know 't is vain to hope for solace or relief:
A load is ever on my soul, and a mist before my sight;
I am a weeper now, by day, and a watcher still, by night!
I feel—I know 't is vain to hope for solace or relief:
A load is ever on my soul, and a mist before my sight;
I am a weeper now, by day, and a watcher still, by night!
And ev'n when Slumber's clouds of dewy gloom have gathered round my head,
Swift-rushing visions of the Past, around me float and spread;
And in my thoughtful-dreaming ear, a voice for ever swells,
Breathing caressing tones of Love, and everlasting, wild Farewells!
Swift-rushing visions of the Past, around me float and spread;
And in my thoughtful-dreaming ear, a voice for ever swells,
Breathing caressing tones of Love, and everlasting, wild Farewells!
Farewells!—and Echo that soft cadence caught,
Doubling the dying sweetness which it brought!
Doubling the dying sweetness which it brought!
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