Observations placeholder

AN ORIENTAL IDYL.

A SILVER javelin which the hills
Have hurled upon the plain below,
The fleetest of the Pharpar's rills,
Beneath me shoots in flashing flow.

I hear the never-ending laugh
Of jostling waves that come and go,
And suck the bubbling pipe, and quaff
The sherbet cooled in mountain snow.

The flecks of sunshine gleam like stars
Beneath the canopy of shade ;
And in the distant, dim bazaars
I scarcely hear the hum of trade.

No evil fear, no dream forlorn,
Darkens my heaven of perfect blue ;
My blood is tempered to the morn —
My very heart is steeped in dew.

What Evil is I cannot tell ;
But half I guess what Joy may be ;
And, as a pearl within its shell,
The happy spirit sleeps in me.

I feel no more pulse's strife, —
The tides of Passion's ruddy sea, —
But live the sweet, unconscious life
That breathes from yonder jasmine tree.

Upon the glittering pageantries
Of gay Damascus streets I look
As idly as a babe that sees
The painted pictures of a book.

Forgotten now are name and race ;
The Past is blotted from my brain ;
For Memory sleeps, and will not trace
The weary pages o'er again.

I only know the morning shines,
And sweet the dewy morning air ;
But does it play with tendrilled vines ?
Or does it lightly lift my hair ?

Deep-sunken in the charmed repose,
This ignorance is bliss extreme :
And whether I be Man, or Rose,
O, pluck me not from out my dream !