The Princess, whose heart was sad enough already, could have wished that FERAMORZ had chosen a less melancholy story; as it is only to the happy that tears are a luxury. Her Ladies, however, were by no means sorry that love was once more the Poet’s theme; for, whenever he spoke of love, they said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree, which grows over the tomb of the musician, Tan-Sein.[235] Their road all the morning had lain through a very dreary country;—through valleys, covered with a low bushy jungle, where, in more than one place, the awful signal of the bamboo staff,[236] with the white flag at its top, reminded the traveller that, in that very spot, the tiger had made some human creature his victim. It was, therefore, with much pleasure that they arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen, and encamped under one of those holy trees, whose smooth columns and spreading roofs seem to destine them for natural temples of religion. Beneath this spacious shade, some pious hands had erected a row of pillars ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain,[237] which now supplied the use of mirrors to the young maidens, as they adjusted their hair in descending from the palankeens. Here, while, as usual, the Princess sat listening anxiously, with FADLADEEN in one of his loftiest moods of criticism by her side, the young Poet, leaning against a branch of the tree, thus continued his story:— ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The morn hath risen clear and calm, And o’er the Green Sea[238] palely shines, Revealing BAHREIN’S[239] groves of palm, And lighting KISHMA’S[239] amber vines. Fresh smell the shores of ARABY, While breezes from the Indian sea Blow round SELAMA’S[240] sainted cape, And curl the shining flood beneath,— Whose waves are rich with many a grape, And cocoa-nut and flowery wreath, Which pious seamen, as they pass’d, Had tow’rd that holy headland cast— Oblations to the Genii there For gentle skies and breezes fair! The nightingale now bends her flight[241] From the high trees, where all the night She sung so sweet, with none to listen; And hides her from the morning star Where thickets of pomegranate glisten In the clear dawn,—bespangled o’er With dew, whose night drops would not stain The best and brightest scimitar[242] That ever youthful Sultan wore On the first morning of his reign.