A PERSIAN TALE.
The fable of the following little tale is taken from an ingenious and justly admired Author
Ye blooming Maids who sport in Persian groves,
In those sweet haunts where trembling Zephyr roves,
In those sweet haunts where Spring’s lone bird retires
And thro’ the leafy skreen his Rose admires,
There where amidst the luxury of sense,
He sinks inert, and drunk with fragrance,
While thro’ the air his dying numbers flow,
Melting the soul to tears of softest woe.–
If his wild notes can wake the quiv’ring sigh,
If his sad plaints can swell the tearful eye,
Ah ! listen to a tale of deeper woe–
Let your fair breasts a softer sigh bestow ;
Let your dark eyes no more in gladness rove,
But learn the fate of fond and hapless love.
In these fair groves where now ye careless stray
And pluck each gay-flow’r of the laughing day,
In these fair groves where Peries love to dwell,
Where fruits of brightest hues inviting swell,
Where peeps the Gazel’s mild and fearful eye
And idly sports the azure Butterfly,
Here did Love’s torch first burn in Mesri’s heart,
Here Beauty’s glances urg’d the winged dart ;
Sure was its aim–he breath’d a yielding sigh,
And conquest revell’d in Delilah’s eye.
Now deeper bloom’d her cheeks voluptuous rose,
A gale more musky did her lips disclose,
In softer murmurs would her accents break,
And prouder transports did her looks bespeak.
What fond emotions throb’d in Mesri’s breast–
How vainly love’s wild whisp’rings were repress’d ;
Its tangled web was wove with fingers nice,
Its eloquence to Silence gave a voice.–
Sweet pair ! who felt not Art’s despoiling hand !
In ye Truth’s buds were suffer’d to expand,
Your speaking eyes all artless and serene
Beam’d the pure heralds of the mind within.
The Mind whose compass ne’er to Vice was driv’n,
Whose spotless page might meet the gaze of Heav’n.
Already now the gay Pavilion flames,
And Hymen’s voice the Maid’s protraction shames,
With songs of praise the shores of Schiraz rung,
Delilah’s charms the choir of Schiraz sung.
See ! how the light bark skims along the deep !
Tumult is hush’d,–the angry billows sleep,
The timbrel sounds,–hark ! to the Minstrel’s hand,
See how the dancers bound along the strand !
Behold how Zephyr fans the laughing wave
The painted bark he bids it gently lave ;
And view the graces of the lovely bride !
The veil of crimson seeks her blush to hide,
The crimson veil that tells the hour of joy,
And intimates of love the mantling die.
But why so sudden stops the joyous strain ?
Why do the dancers thus their steps restrain ?
Ah, see ! a deadly whirlpool circles round,
In dazzling wheels the flashing surges bound–
Alas ! their eddying rage the vessel staves,–
Delilah floats upon the greedy waves,
Delilah floats–and Mesri turns from land,
Tho’ friendship stretches forth the saviour hand.
“Learn not the tale of constancy, he cries,
From him who in distress his Mistress flies,
“Leave me to buffet with the foaming wave,
But oh! my Rose, my lov’d Delilah save !”
Ah! no, he meets her in the boiling deep,
He spreads his arms and shares her leaden sleep.
One languid smile around her pale cheek strays,
One farewel gleam beneath her eye-lid plays–
And now to meet the frown of Death they sink,
One grave they find, one briny wave they drink.
(Laura Sophia Temple)
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Based on Keywords: d-the, revell, skreen, delilah, eye-lid, intimates, despoiling, protraction, schiraz, gazel