’Twas when the hour of evening came Upon the Lake, serene and cool, When Day had hid his sultry flame Behind the palms of BARAMOULE,[317] When maids began to lift their heads, Refresh’d from their embroider’d beds, Where they had slept the sun away, And wak’d to moonlight and to play. All were abroad—the busiest hive On BELA’S[318] hills is less alive, When saffron-beds are full in flower, Than look’d the Valley in that hour. A thousand restless torches play’d Through every grove and island shade; A thousand sparkling lamps were set On every dome and minaret; And fields and pathways, far and near, Were lighted by a blaze so clear, That you could see, in wandering round, The smallest rose-leaf on the ground. Yet did the maids and matrons leave Their veils at home, that brilliant eve; And there were glancing eyes about, And cheeks, that would not dare shine out In open day, but thought they might Look lovely then, because ’twas night. And all were free, and wandering, And all exclaim’d to all they met, That never did the summer bring So gay a Feast of Roses yet;— The moon had never shed a light So clear as that which bless’d them there; The roses ne’er shone half so bright, Nor they themselves look’d half so fair.