English

The Moonbeams slept upon the Wave
Which scarce a wand'ring zephyr curl'd,
And with their silvery brightness gave
Dreams of a fairer, holier world.

The distant Isles their shadows threw,
Dark'ning the water's fair expanse,
While Nature's placid stillness drew
By witchery forth the Soul's romance.

A rapture o'er our spirits broke
Till that still hour unknown before,
And many a thought which love awoke
Was utter'd on that lovely shore.

For wild and lonely was the scene.

Overcast is the sky,
And the wind passes by,
Breathing blight.
Yet, afar in the gloom,
In the desolate room,
Cold and white,
Where December is king,
I hear a lone bird sing.
And the gloom,
Ere my glad lips can say,
From the earth melts away,
In the warm smile of Spring,
And the frosty winds bring
Sweet perfume.
In the vast waste of snow,
I see the roses bloom.

Overcast is the sky,
And the wind passes by,
Breathing blight.
Yet, afar in the gloom,

The Caesars and the Alexanders were
But men gone mad, who ran about a while
Upsetting kingdoms, and were slain in turn
Like rabid dogs, or died in misery.
Assassins laid in wait for Caesar; wine,
Amid the boasts of victory, cut short
The glory of the Macedonian;
Deception cooled the fever Pompey had;
Death was dealt to Phyrrus by a woman's
Hand; Themistocles and Hannibal drank
Deep of poison in their desolation.

The Caesars and the Alexanders were
But men gone mad, who ran about a while

(“Allah! qui me rendra—”)

Oh, Allah! who will give me back my terrible array?
My emirs and my cavalry that shook the earth to-day;
My tent, my wide-extending camp, all dazzling to the sight,
Whose watchfires, kindled numberless beneath the brow of night,
Seemed oft unto the sentinel that watched the midnight hours,
As heaven along the sombre hill had rained its stars in showers?
Where are my beys so gorgeous, in their light pelisses gay,
And where my fierce Timariot bands, so fearless in the fray;

Till baby lips have spoken " papa, mama, "
There is no meaning in the words at all;
The house is but a pile of brick or lumber,
Till baby feet have pattered thro' the hall.

Till baby lips have spoken " papa, mama, "
There is no meaning in the words at all;
The house is but a pile of brick or lumber,
Till baby feet have pattered thro' the hall.

Now here, now there;
E'er poised somewhere
In sensuous air.
I only hear, I cannot see,
The matchless wings that beareth thee.
Art thou some frenzied poet's thought,
That God embodied and forgot?

Now here, now there;
E'er poised somewhere
In sensuous air.
I only hear, I cannot see,
The matchless wings that beareth thee.
Art thou some frenzied poet's thought,
That God embodied and forgot?

The raven hair of youth turns gray;
Bright eyes grow dim; soft cheeks grow pale;
The joyous heart becomes less gay:
For beauty is a thing so frail,
If once Time's fingers touch it in caress,
It droops, and loses all its loveliness.

The raven hair of youth turns gray;
Bright eyes grow dim; soft cheeks grow pale;
The joyous heart becomes less gay:
For beauty is a thing so frail,
If once Time's fingers touch it in caress,
It droops, and loses all its loveliness.

( " Un jour Ali passait. " )

Ali came riding by — the highest head
Bent to the dust, o'charged with dread,
Whilst " God be praised! " all cried;
But through the throng one dervish pressed,
Aged and bent, who dared arrest
The pasha in his pride.

" Ali Tepelini, light of all light,
Who hold'st the Divan's upper seat by right,
Whose fame Fame's trump hath burst —
Thou art the master of unnumbered hosts,

Glide merrily on, my little skiff,
O'er waves lit up by Luna's smile,
There lies no shoal or rugged cliff
Between thee and yon fairy Isle.

Skim lightly o'er the glittering tide,
The stars shall be our lamp the while,
And bear me quickly to the side
Of her I love on yonder Isle.

The Miser doats upon his store,
And dreams the Warrior's heart beguile,—
If fate bestows, I'll ask no more
Than her who lives on yonder Isle.

Glide merrily on, my little skiff,
O'er waves lit up by Luna's smile,

I pity him who never dreams,
Who has no castles in the air.
Denied my fancies, life would be
A burden more than I could bear.

I pity him who never hears
The high-born perfect harmony
That haunts the air of loneliness:
How very dead his soul must be!

I pity him who cannot feel
The thrill of rapture but in lust;
Who cannot rise above himself,
And only lives because he must.

I pity him who never dreams,
Who has no castles in the air.
Denied my fancies, life would be