A goodly place, a goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Above thro' many a bowery turn
A walk with vary-color'd shells
Wander'd engrain'd. 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 possess'd
The darkness of the world, delight,
Life, anguish, death, immortal love,
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd,
Apart from place, withholding time,
But flattering the golden prine

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Black the garden-bowers and grots Slumber'd: the solemn palms were ranged

Above, unwoo'd of summer wind:
A sudden splendor from behind
Flush'd 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 thro' the garden I was drawn--
A realm of pleasance, many a mound,
And many a shadow-checker'd 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 visions unawares
From the long alley's latticed 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 look'd to shame
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd
Upon the mooned domes aloof
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd
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 Airaschid.

Six columns, three on either side,
Pure silver, underpropt a rich
Throne of the massive ore, from which

Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold,
Engarlanded and diaper'd
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of
gold.

Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd
With merriment of kingly pride,

Sole star of all that place and time, I saw him in his golden prime, THE GOOD HAROUN ALRASCHID.

ODE TO MEMORY.

ADDRESSED TO

I.

THOU who stealest fire, From the fountains of the past, To glorify the present; oh, haste, Visit my low desire! Strengthen me, enlighten me! I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory.

II.

Come not as thou camest of late, Flinging the gloom of yesternight On the white day; but robed in soften'd light

Of orient state.

Whilom thou camest with the morning mist,

Even as a maid, whose stately brow The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd.

When, she, as thou,

Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight

Of overflowing blooms, and earliest

shoots

Of orient green, giving safe pledge of

fruits,

Which in wintertide shall star
The black earth with brilliance rare.

III.

Whilom thou camest with the morn

ing mist,

And with the evening cloud, Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast

(Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind

Never grow sear,

When rooted in the garden of the mind,

Because they are the earliest of the year).

Nor was the night thy shroud. In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest

Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope.

The eddying of her garments caught from thee

The light of thy great presence; and the cope

Of the half-attain'd futurity,
Tho' deep not fathomless,

Was cloven with the million stars which tremble

O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy.

Small thought was there of life's dis

And chiefly from the brook that loves To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand,

Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves,
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn,
In every elbow and turn,
The filter'd tribute of the rough wood-
land,

O! hither lead thy feet! Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat

Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds,

Upon the ridged wolds,

When the first matin-song hath waken'd loud

Over the dark dewy earth forlorn,
What time the amber morn
Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung
cloud.

V.

Large dowries doth the raptured eye
To the young spirit present
When first she is wed;

And like a bride of old

In triumph led,

With music and sweetshowers
Of festal flowers,

Unto the dwelling she must sway. Well hast thou done, great artist Memory,

In setting round thy first experiment With royal frame-workof wrought gold;

Needs must thou dearly love thy first

essay,

And foremost in thy various gallery Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls

Upon the storied walls;

For the discovery

And newness of thine art so pleased

thee,

That all which thou hast drawn of fairest

Or boldest since, but lightly weighs With thee unto the love thou bearest The first-born of thy genius. Artistlike,

Ever retiring thou dost gaze
On the prime labor of thine early days:

No matter what the sketch might be ; Whether the high field on the bushless Pike,

Or even a sand-built ridge

Of heaped hills that mound the sea,
Overblown with murmurs harsh,
Or even a lowly cottage whence we see
Stretch'd wide and wild the waste
enormous marsh,

Where from the frequent bridge,
Like emblems of infinity,

The trenched waters run from sky to sky;

Or a garden bower'd close

With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, Long alleys falling down to twilight grots,

Or opening upon level plots

Of crowned lilies, standing near
Purple-spiked lavender:
Whither in after life retired
From brawling storms,
From weary wind,

With youthful fancy re-inspired,
We may hold converse with all
forms

Of the many-sided mind,

And those whom passion hath not blinded,

Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded.

My friend, with you to live alone,
Were how much better than to own
A crown, a sceptre, and a throne!

U strengthen me, enlighten me!
I faint in this obscurity,
Thou dewy dawn of memory.