THY tuwhits are lull'd I wot, Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, Which upon the dark afloat, So took echo with delight, So took echo with delight, That her voice untuneful grown,
Wears all day a fainter tone.
I would mock thy chaunt anew ; But I cannot mimick it;
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,
With a lengthen'd loud halloo,
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o.
WHEN the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free In the silken sail of infancy,
The tide of time flow'd back with me, The forward-flowing tide of time; And many a sheeny summer-morn, Adown the Tigris I was borne, By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, High-walled gardens green and old ; True Mussulman was I and sworn, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Anight my shallop, rustling thro' The low and bloomed foliage, drove
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove The citron-shadows in the blue :
By garden porches on the brim, The costly doors flung open wide, Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, And broider'd sofas on each side : In sooth it was a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard The outlet, did I turn away
The boat-head down a broad canal
From the main river sluiced, where all The sloping of the moon-lit sward Was damask-work, and deep inlay Of braided blooms unmown, which crept Adown to where the waters slept. A goodly place, a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.
A motion from the river won
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on
My shallop through the star-strown calm, Until another night in night
I enter'd, from the clearer light,
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm,
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome Of hollow boughs.-A goodly time,
For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Still onward; and the clear canal Is rounded to as clear a lake. From the green rivage many a fall Of diamond rillets musical, Thro' little crystal arches low
Down from the central fountain's flow Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 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-colour'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 odour 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 prime 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 splendour 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.
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