“Melisanda! What are dreams? “What is death? Mere words to scare one! “Truth in love alone e’er find we, “And I love thee, ever fair one!” “Geoffry! O how sweet our meetings “In this moonlit chamber nightly, “Now that in the day’s bright sunbeams “I no more shall wander lightly.” “Melisanda! Foolish dear one! “Thou art light and sun, thou knowest! “Love and joys of May are budding, “Spring is blooming, where thou goest!”-- Thus those tender spectres wander Up and down, and sweet caresses Interchange, whilst peeps the moonlight Through the window’s arch’d recesses. But at length the rays of morning Scare away the fond illusion; To the tapestry retreat they On the wall, in shy confusion. THE POET FERDUSI. 1. Men of gold, and men of silver! When a fool about a thoman Talks, of silver he is speaking, And he means a silver thoman. In a prince’s mouth, however, Or a shah’s, a thoman’s always Golden, for a shah will only Give and take in golden thomans. Worthy people have this notion, And Ferdusi thought so also, The composer of the famous And immortal work _Schah Nameh_. This divine heroic poem At the Shah’s command composed he, Who for every verse a thoman Promised to bestow upon him. Seventeen times bloom’d the roses, Seventeen times did they wither, And the nightingales sang sweetly And were silent seventeen times,-- And meanwhile the bard was sitting At the loom of thought, composing Day and night, and nimbly weaving His sweet numbers’ giant-carpet,-- Giant-carpet, where the poet Interwove with skill his country’s Chronicles from times of fable, Farsistan’s primeval monarchs, Fav’rite heroes of his nation, Knightly deeds, adventures wondrous, Magic beings, hateful demons, Intertwined with flowers of fable. All were blooming, all were living, Bright with colours, glowing, burning, With the heavenly rays illumin’d From the sacred light of Iran, From the godlike light primeval, Whose last pure and fiery temple, Spite of Koran and of Mufti, In the poet’s heart flam’d brightly. When at last the work was finish’d, Then the manuscript the poet Sent to his illustrious patron, E’en two hundred thousand verses. It was in the public bath room, In the bathing place at Gasna, That the Shah’s black messengers Found at last the bard Ferdusi. Each a bag of money carried, Which before the poet’s feet he Kneeling placed, to be the guerdon To reward his minstrel labours. Hastily the poet open’d Both the bags, his eyes to gladden With the gold so long kept from him,-- When he saw with consternation