nature, must have been written previous to Lebid’s change of religion. Its subject is one that must ever interest a feeling mind--the return of a person, after a long absence, to a place where he had spent his early years. It is, in fact, an Arabian Deserted Village.” Those dear abodes, which once contain’d the fair, Amidst Mitata’s wilds I seek in vain; Nor towers, nor tents, nor cottages are there, But scatter’d ruins, and a silent plain. The proud canals, that once Rayanna grac’d, Their course neglected and their waters gone, Among the levell’d sands are dimly trac’d, Like moss-grown letters on a mouldering stone. Rayanna say, how many a tedious year Its hallow’d circle o’er our heads hath roll’d, Since to my vows thy tender maids gave ear, And fondly listen’d to the tale I told? How oft, since then, the star of spring, that pours A never-failing stream, hath drench’d thy head? How oft the summer’s cloud, in copious showers, Or gentle drops, its genial influence shed? How oft, since then, the hovering mist of morn, Hath caus’d thy locks with glittering gems to glow? How oft, hath eve her dewy treasure borne To fall responsive to the breeze below? The matted thistles, bending to the gale, Now clothe those meadows once with verdure gay; Amidst the windings of that lonely vale, The teeming antelope and ostrich stray: The large-eyed mother of the herd, that flies Man’s noisy haunts, here finds a sure retreat, Here tends her clustering young, till age supplies Strength to their limbs and swiftness to their feet. Save where the swelling stream hath swept those walls, And giv’n their deep foundations to the light (As the retouching pencil that recalls A long-lost picture to the raptur’d sight:) Save where the rains have wash’d the gather’d sand, And bared the scanty fragments to our view, (As the [a] dust sprinkled on a punctur’d hand Bids the faint tints resume their azure hue.) No mossy record of those once-lov’d seats Points out the mansion to inquiring eyes; No tottering wall, in echoing sounds, repeats Our mournful questions and our bursting sighs. Yet midst those ruin’d heaps, that naked plain, Can faithful memory former scenes restore, Recall the busy throng, the jocund train, And picture all that charm’d us there before Ne’er shall my heart the fatal morn forget, That bore the fair-ones from these seats so dear-- I see, I see the crowding litters yet, And yet the tent-poles rattle in my ear. I see the maids with timid steps ascend, The streamers wave in all their painted pride; The floating curtains every fold extend, And vainly strive the charms within to hide.