Now, through the Haram chambers, moving lights And busy shapes proclaim the toilet’s rites;— From room to room the ready handmaids hie, Some skill’d to wreath the turban tastefully, Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade, O’er the warm blushes of the youthful maid, Who, if between the folds but _one_ eye shone, Like SEBA’S Queen could vanquish with that one:—[61] While some bring leaves of Henna, to imbue The fingers’ ends with a bright roseate hue,[62] So bright, that in the mirror’s depth they seem Like tips of coral branches in the stream; And others mix the Kohol’s jetty dye, To give that long, dark languish to the eye,[63] Which makes the maids, whom kings are proud to cull From fair Circassia’s vales, so beautiful. All is in motion; rings and plumes and pearls Are shining every where:—some younger girls Are gone by moonlight to the garden beds, To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads;— Gay creatures! sweet, though mournful, ’tis to see How each prefers a garland from that tree Which brings to mind her childhood’s innocent day, And the dear fields and friendships far away. The maid of INDIA, blest again to hold In her full lap the Champac’s leaves of gold,[64] Thinks of the time when, by the GANGES’ flood, Her little playmates scatter’d many a bud Upon her long black hair, with glossy gleam Just dripping from the consecrated stream; While the young Arab, haunted by the smell Of her own mountain flowers, as by a spell,— The sweet Elcaya,[65] and that courteous tree Which bows to all who seek its canopy,[66] Sees, call’d up round her by these magic scents, The well, the camels, and her father’s tents; Sighs for the home she left with little pain, And wishes even its sorrows back again! Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls, Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound From many a jasper fount, is heard around, Young AZIM roams bewilder’d,—nor can guess What means this maze of light and loneliness. Here, the way leads, o’er tessellated floors Or mats of CAIRO, through long corridors, Where, rang’d in cassolets and silver urns, Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns; And spicy rods, such as illume at night The bowers of TIBET,[67] send forth odorous light, Like Peris’ wands, when pointing out the road For some pure Spirit to its blest abode:— And here, at once, the glittering saloon Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon; Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays High as the’ enamell’d cupola, which towers All rich with Arabesques of gold and flowers: And the mosaic floor beneath shines through The sprinkling of that fountain’s silv’ry dew, Like the wet, glistening shells, of every dye, That on the margin of the Red Sea lie.