Above through many a bowery turn A walk with vary-colored shells. Wandered engrained. On either side All round about the fragrant marge From fluted vase, and brazen urn, In order, eastern flowers large, Some dropping low their crimson bells Half-closed, and others studded wide. With disks and tiars, fed the time With odor in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Far off, and where the lemon-grove
In closest coverture upsprung,
The living airs of middle night Died round the bulbul as he sung; Not he: but something which possessed The darkness of the world, delight, Life, anguish, death, immortal love, Ceasing not, mingled, unrepressed, Apart from place, withholding time, But flattering the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Black the garden-bowers and grots Slumbered: the solemn palms were ranged Above, unwooed of summer wind:
A sudden splendor from behind
Flushed all the leaves with rich gold-green, And, flowing rapidly between Their interspaces, counterchanged The level lake with diamond-plots Of dark and bright. A lovely time, For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, Distinct with vivid stars inlaid,
Grew darker from that under-flame : So, leaping lightly from the boat, With silver anchor left afloat,
In marvel whence that glory came Upon me, as in sleep I sank
In cool soft turf upon the bank,
Entranced with that place and time, So worthy of the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Thence through the garden I was drawn- A realm of pleasance, many a mound, And many a shadow-chequered lawn Full of the city's stilly sound,
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round The stately cedar, tamarisks, Thick rosaries of scented thorn,
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks Graven with emblems of the time,
In honor of the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.
With dazed vision unawares
From the long alley's lattice shade Emerged, I came upon the great Pavilion of the Caliphat.
Right to the carven cedarn doors, Flung inward over spangled floors, Broad-based flights of marble stairs Ran up with golden balustrade, After the fashion of the time, And humor of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.
The fourscore windows all alight As with the quintessence of flame, A million tapers flaring bright
From twisted silvers looked to shame
The hollow-vaulted dark, and streamed Upon the mooned domes aloof
In inmost Bagdat, till there seemed Hundreds of crescents on the roof
Of night new risen, that marvellous time, To celebrate the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Then stole I up, and trancedly Gazed on the Persian girl alone, Serene with argent-lidded eyes, Amorous, and lashes like to rays Of darkness, and a brow of pearl Tressed with redolent ebony, In many a dark delicious curl, Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone; The sweetest lady of the time, Well worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Six columns, three on either side, Pure silver, underpropt a rich
Throne of the massive ore, from which Down-drooped, in many a floating fold, Engarlanded and diapered
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirred With merriment of kingly pride,
Sole star of all that place and time, I saw him in his golden prime, THE GOOD HAROUN ALRASCHID!
« ZurückWeiter » |