Zuleikah brought me water from the well; Since then I have been faithless to the rocks. I saw her face reflected in the well; Her camels since have marched into the rocks. I look to see her image in the well; I only see my eyes, my own sad eyes. My mother is alone among the rocks. THE MERRY BARD. ZULEIKAH! The young Agas in the bazaar are slim-wasted and wear yellow slippers. I am old and hideous. One of my eyes is out, and the hairs of my beard are mostly gray. Praise be to Allah! I am a merry bard. There is a bird upon the terrace of the Emir's chief wife. Praise be to Allah! He has emeralds on his neck, and a ruby tail. I am a merry bard. He deafens me with his diabolical screaming. There is a little brown bird in the basket-maker's cage. Praise be to Allah! He ravishes my soul in the moonlight. I am a merry bard. The peacock is an Aga, but the little bird is a Bulbul. I am a little brown Bulbul. Come and listen in the moonlight. Praise be to Allah! I am a merry bard. THE CAÏQUE. Yonder to the kiosk, beside the creek, Paddle the swift caïque. Thou brawny oarsman with the sunburnt cheek, Quick! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak. Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores, Swift bending to your oars. Beneath the melancholy sycamores, Hark! what a ravishing note the lovelorn Bulbul pours. Behold, the boughs seem quivering with delight, The stars themselves more bright, As mid the waving branches out of sight The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the night. Under the boughs I sat and listened still, I could not have my fill. "How comes," I said, "such music to his bill? Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill." "Once I was dumb," then did the Bird disclose, "But looked upon the Rose; And in the garden where the loved one grows, I straightway did begin sweet music to compose." "O bird of song, there's one in this caïque The Rose would also seek, So he might learn like you to love and speak." Then answered me the bird of dusky beak, "The Rose, the Rose of Love blushes on Leilah's cheek." MY NORA. Beneath the gold acacia buds My gentle Nora sits and broods, Far, far away in Boston woods My gentle Nora! I see the tear-drop in her e'e, Her bosom's heaving tenderly; I know--I know she thinks of me, My Darling Nora! And where am I? My love, whilst thou Sitt'st sad beneath the acacia bough, Where pearl's on neck, and wreath on brow, I stand, my Nora! Mid carcanet and coronet, Where joy-lamps shine and flowers are set-- Where England's chivalry are met, Behold me, Nora! In this strange scene of revelry, Amidst this gorgeous chivalry, A form I saw was like to thee, My love--my Nora!