The stately-cedar, tamarisks,
Thick rosaries of scented thorn,
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks

Graven with emblems of the time
In honour of the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

XI.

With dazed vision 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 humour of the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

XII.

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.

XIII.

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.

XIV.

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!

TENNYSON.

A Bard's Epitaph.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre fast for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,

That weekly this area throng,

Oh! pass not by;

But with a frater-feeling strong,

Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career

Wild as the wave;

Here pause-and through the starting tear Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn and wise to know,

And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stained his name.

Reader, attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In dark pursuit;

Know, prudent, cautious, self-control
Is wisdom's root.

UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,

And loves to live i' the sun,

Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

BURNS.

SHAKSPEARE.

Phyllis.

In petticoat of green,

Her hair about her een;
Phyllis beneath an oak

Sat milking her fair flock:

'Mongst that sweet-strained moisture, (rare delight,) Her hand seemed milk, in milk it was so white.