Above the storm, the thunder's growl, The torrent's roar, the forest's howl, Is heard his hunting-horn--an owl, That hoots and sweeps before him: And beneath the blinding leven, On wild crags, the Castle riven Of the Dumburg towers to heaven, Beckoning on the demon-driven, Beckoning on and looming o'er him.
Mildewed and gray a marble stair Leads to a balustrade of urns, Beyond which two stone satyrs glare From vines and close-clipped yews and ferns.
A path, that winds and labyrinths, 'Twixt parallels of verdant box, Around a lodge whose mossy plinths Are based on emerald-colored rocks.
A lodge, or ancient pleasure-house, Built in a grove beside a lake, Around whose edge the dun deer browse, And swans their snowy pastime take.
And underneath and overhead,-- The breathings of a water-nymph It seems,--the violets' scent is shed Mixed with the music of the lymph.
And where,--upon its pedestal,-- The old sun-dial marks the hours, Laburnum blossoms lightly fall, And duchess roses rain their flowers.
The air is languid with perfume, As if dead beauties--who of old Intrigued it here in patch and plume-- Again the ancient terrace strolled
With gallants, on whose rapiers gems Once sneered in haughtiness of hues, While Touchstone wit and apothegms Laughed down the long cool avenues:
And there, where bowers of woodbine pave, All heavily with sultry musk, Two fountains of pellucid wave, In sunlight-tessellated dusk,
I seem to see the fountains twain Of Hate and Love in Arden, where, In times of regal Charlemagne, Great Roland drank and Oliver.
Where, wandered from Montalban's towers, The paladin, Rinaldo, slept, While, leaning o'er him through the flowers, Angelica above him wept.
_Scene, Baghdad: time of the Khalif Haroun er Reshid. Salih ben Tarif speaks._
With Imam Hassan I had reached the khan Outside of Ambar. Jaafer at the door Of his pavilion watched a caravan Inbound from Yemen.--Ah, the bales it bore Of richest stuffs and spices!--'Mid the rout Of porters, camel-drivers, old and poor, A singer stood,--a blindman, singing out With luted preludes. Imam Hassan then: "'Tis Zekkar; he, t' whom, with the blind about The Mosque of Moons, I with our holy men Scattered my silver at the hour of prayer, When hearts are open unto Allah's ken.-- Danic or dirhem, though, were wasted there: Yea, by the Prophet! had one sown dinars _He_ had not budged one finger or that stare. And so the beggars and the scavengers Got all." Then I: "The very same whom I-- Guard at the Western Portal--'neath the stars Some midnights past heard singing. Dim the dry Hot night; and Baghdad only knew of us Until, gray shadows shuffling slowly by, Pilgrims for Mecca passed, all vaporous In dust and darkness; them we challenged not. --Slaves, with the tribute of Nicephorus The Roman, from long shallops, as they shot Along the moonlit Tigris far away, Timing their oars, raised languid chanting.-- What This blindman sang was sweeter than--let's say-- The songs of Ibrahim, the dulcet frets Of Zulzul's lute. I listened till the day Made gold of all the city's minarets, And the muezzin summoned us to pray."