"Long ago, so runs the story, in the days of King Akbar, 'Mid the pearly-tinted splendours of the Paradise Bazaar, Young Jahângir, boyish-hearted, playing idly with his dove, Lost his boyhood, lost his favourite, lost his heart, and found his love. By a fretted marble fountain, set in 'broidery of flowers, Sat a girl, half-child, half-maiden, dreaming o'er her coming hours. Wondering vaguely, yet half guessing, what the harem women mean When they call her fair, and whisper, 'You are born to be a queen'. Curving her small palms, like petals, for their store of glistening spray, Gazing in the sunny water where in rippling shadow lay Lips that ripen fast for kisses, slender form of budding grace, Hair that frames with ebon softness a clear, oval, ivory face. Arched and fringed with velvet blackness from their shady depths her eyes Shine as summer lightning flashes in the dusky evening skies. Mihr-un-nissa, Queen of Women, so they call the little maid Dreaming by the marble fountain where but yesterday she played. Heavy sweet the creamy blossoms gem the burnished orange groves, Through their shade comes Prince Jehângir, on his wrist two fluttering doves. 'Hold my birds, child!' cries the stripling, 'I am tired of their play', Thrusts them in her hands, unwilling, careless saunters on his way. Culling posies as he wanders from the flowers rich and rare, Heedless that the fairest blossom 'mid the blaze of blossom there Is the little dreaming maiden by the fountain-side at rest With the orange-eyed, bright-plumaged birds of love upon her breast. Flowers fade and perfume passes; nothing pleases long to-day; Back toward his feathered fav'rites soon the Prince's footsteps stray. Dreaming still sits Mihr-un-nissa, but within her listless hold Only one vain-struggling captive does the lad, surprised, behold. 'Only one?' he queries sharply. 'Sire', she falters, 'one has flown!' 'Stupid! How?' The maiden flushes at his quick imperious tone. 'So! my lord!' she says defiant, with a curving lip, and straight From her unclasped hands the other circling flies to join its mate. Heavy sweet the creamy blossom gems the burnished orange tree, Where the happy doves are cooing o'er their new-found liberty. Startled by her quick reprisal, wrath is lost in blank surprise, Silent stands the heir of Akbar, gazing with awakening eyes At the small rebellious figure, with its slender arms outspread, Face half frowns, half laughter, royal right of maidenhead. Slowly dies the flush of anger as the flush of evening dies,