LITMIR.BIZ

           THE FAY.

           Beautiful infant (said the Fay),

             In the region of the sun

           I dwell, where in a rich array

           The clouds encircle the king of day,

             His radiant journey done.

           My wings, pure golden, of radiant sheen

             (Painted as amorous poet's strain),

           Glimmer at night, when meadows green

             Sparkle with the perfumed rain

             While the sun's gone to come again.

           And clear my hand, as stream that flows;

             And sweet my breath as air of May;

             And o'er my ivory shoulders stray

             Locks of sunshine; – tunes still play

           From my odorous lips of rose.

           Follow, follow! I have caves

           Of pearl beneath the azure waves,

           And tents all woven pleasantly

           In verdant glades of Faëry.

           Come, belovèd child, with me,

           And I will bear thee to the bowers

           Where clouds are painted o'er like flowers,

           And pour into thy charmed ear

           Songs a mortal may not hear;

             Harmonies so sweet and ripe

             As no inspired shepherd's pipe

             E'er breathed into Arcadian glen,

             Far from the busy haunts of men.

           THE PERI.

           My home is afar in the bright Orient,

           Where the sun, like a king, in his orange tent,

           Reigneth for ever in gorgeous pride —

             And wafting thee, princess of rich countree,

             To the soft flute's lush melody,

           My golden vessel will gently glide,

           Kindling the water 'long the side.

           Vast cities are mine of power and delight,

             Lahore laid in lilies, Golconda, Cashmere;

           And Ispahan, dear to the pilgrim's sight,

             And Bagdad, whose towers to heaven uprear;

             Alep, that pours on the startled ear,

           From its restless masts the gathering roar,

           As of ocean hamm'ring at night on the shore.

           Mysore is a queen on her stately throne,

             Thy white domes, Medina, gleam on the eye, —

               Thy radiant kiosques with their arrowy spires,

               Shooting afar their golden fires

                 Into the flashing sky, —

           Like a forest of spears that startle the gaze

           Of the enemy with the vivid blaze.

           Come there, beautiful child, with me,

           Come to the arcades of Araby,

           To the land of the date and the purple vine,

           Where pleasure her rosy wreaths doth twine,

           And gladness shall be alway thine;

           Singing at sunset next thy bed,

           Strewing flowers under thy head.

             Beneath a verdant roof of leaves,

               Arching a flow'ry carpet o'er,

             Thou mayst list to lutes on summer eves

               Their lays of rustic freshness pour,

               While upon the grassy floor

             Light footsteps, in the hour of calm,

             Ruffle the shadow of the palm.

           THE FAY.

           Come to the radiant homes of the blest,

           Where meadows like fountain in light are drest,

           And the grottoes of verdure never decay,

           And the glow of the August dies not away.

           Come where the autumn winds never can sweep,

           And the streams of the woodland steep thee in sleep,

           Like a fond sister charming the eyes of a brother,

           Or a little lass lulled on the breast of her mother.

           Beautiful! beautiful! hasten to me!

           Colored with crimson thy wings shall be;

           Flowers that fade not thy forehead shall twine,

           Over thee sunlight that sets not shall shine.

           The infant listened to the strain,

           Now here, now there, its thoughts were driven —

             But the Fay and the Peri waited in vain,

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