Few subjects are more worthy of attention than the ways of a People which still keeps so much of what belonged to the feudal and monastic system of Europe in the Middle Ages, and combines them with the patriarchal traditions of the world’s morning. Much that we possess they lack; but, among them, some of the affections—Patriotism and Love, for instance—retain a meaning which appears to grow daily more rare amid the boasted civilization of the West. That meaning is illustrated alike in their lives and their poetry. It has been observed that the religious poetry of the East sometimes resembles love‐poetry. The converse remark may no less be made. Eastern love‐poetry is wide in its range; but its more characteristic specimens resemble the early poetry of religion or patriotic devotion, so full are they of elevation and self‐sacrifice. I know not how far the spirit of such poetry can make itself intelligible to the sympathies of the West. To many readers the present poem will be an experiment new, not only as regards its spirit, but its form also—that of a story narrated in songs. It was composed, in substance, some years ago, when the author was in the East. Part I. He Sang.(81) I. O wind of night! what doth she at this hour In those high towers half lost in rock and brake? Where is she? Sits she lonely in her bower? If she is pensive, is it for my sake? Perchance she joins the dance with other maids: With whom? By whose are those white fingers pressed? Perhaps for sleep her tresses she unbraids While moonbeams fill the chamber of her rest. Tell her, O wind! that I have laid my head Here, on the rough stem of the prostrate pine Which leans across the dried‐up torrent’s bed, And dream at times her face, and dream it mine. Once in the palm‐grove she looked back on me; A wild brier caught her zone: I saw it fall: Large is the earth, the sun, the stars, the sea— For me that rosy girdle clasps them all. II. By night I crossed the tremulous poplar bound Which cools the south wind with its watery bower; I heard the river’s murmur, mid that sound, And smelt the fragrance of the trampled flower. Where that pure crystal makes thy morning bath A white tent glimmered. Round it, rank on rank, The crimson oleanders veiled the path, And bent or rose, as swelled the breeze or sank. I entered not. Beside that river’s brim I sat. Thy fawn, with trailing cord, drew near: When from my knee its head it lifted, dim Seemed those dark eyes, by day so large and clear. Go back, poor fawn, and house thee with thy kind! Where, amid rocks and mountains cold with snow, Through forests sweep the branching hart and hind; Go back: go up: together let us go. III Tell her that boasts—that slender is and tall— I have a cypress in a sunny space: Tell her that blushes, by my garden wall A rose‐tree blushes, kindling all the place.