A. DE LAMARTINE. 15th April, 1835. MAOULS, Or Popular Romances of the Modern Arabs; extracted from a Collection entitled, “A Miscellany of French and Oriental Literature,” by _J. Augoub_. Now that thy stature, like the young shoot of a palm, is slender and graceful, grant me thy caresses. O my best beloved, let us make use of time as it flies! Close not against love the avenue to thy favour. Believe me, beauty is evanescent; its empire has never yet been prolonged for a mortal. They have compared thee to the queen of the nightly firmament; but how greatly do they err in their language! Has the moon those beautiful black eyes, with their sparkling pupils? The rushes bend and sway before the gentlest breath of the zephyr; thou, who resemblest them by thy slight figure--thou seest all men bend before thee! If the torment of my heart causes happiness to thine, torment me; for my happiness is bound up in thine,--if, indeed, thine is not far dearer to me than my own. If thou wishest to take my life--if the sacrifice of it is necessary to thee--take it, O thou who alone art my life, and incense not thyself against me! What harm would it be, young beauty, if thou shouldest treat me with more justice? Thou wouldest cure my grievous malady by a remedy which would relieve me from the necessity of having recourse to the Canon of Avicene.[V] Whenever I contemplate thy beautiful eyebrows, I recognize in them the graceful contour of the houn;[W] and thy voice is sweeter to my ear than the sound of the harp and the cithern.[X] When my best beloved passed by, the branch of the neighbouring willow was jealous of her delicate figure; the rose bent her head for shame when she saw the bright colour of her cheek; and I exclaimed,--O thou who beyond recovery hast captivated my soul, the glance of thine eye has opened a wound in my bosom which will not be cured to the end of my life! I love, I love an adolescent, and my passion burns like a flame at the bottom of my heart. When love glided into my bosom, scarcely did the tender down shade the cheek of my lover. Oh, I love! and it is for thee, my well-beloved, that my tears flow; and I swear by Him who created love, that my heart has never known tenderness but for thee! I offer to thee my first flame. When the night deepens its shadows, it is to imitate the blackness of thy curling locks; when the day shines in its purest splendour, it is to recall to mind the dazzling brightness of thy countenance: the exhalations of the aloes are less sweet than the perfume of thy breath; and the lover, enamoured of thy charms, shall pass his life in recounting thy praises.