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(From Ruins of Many Lands)
OH, who Cabul’s sweet region may behold, | |
| When Spring laughs out, or Autumn sows her gold, | |
| The meadows, orchards, streams that glide in light, | |
| Nor deem lost Irem charms again his sight, | |
| That wondrous garden rivalling Eden’s bloom, | 5 |
| Too blessed for man to view, this side the tomb? | |
| Flowers here, of every scent and form and dye, | |
| Lift their bright heads, and laugh upon the sky, | |
| From the tall tulip with her rich streaked bell, | |
| Where, throned in state, Queen Mab is proud to dwell, | 10 |
| To lowly wind-flowers gaudier plants eclipse, | |
| And pensile harebells with their dewy lips. | |
| There turns the heliotrope to court the sun, | |
| And up green stalks the starry jasmines run: | |
| The hyacinth in tender pink outvies | 15 |
| Beauty’s soft cheek, and violets match her eyes; | |
| Sweet breathe the henna-flowers that harem girls | |
| So love to twine among their glossy curls; | |
| And here the purple pansy springs to birth, | |
| Like some gay insect rising from the earth. | 20 |
| One sheet of bloom the level greensward yields, | |
| And simple daisies speak of England’s fields; | |
| Drawn by sweet odor’s spell, in humming glee, | |
| Flits round the gloomy stock the robber bee, | |
| While to the gorgeous musk-rose, all night long, | 25 |
| The love-sick bulbul pours his melting song; | |
| Then, too, the fruits through months that hang and glow, | |
| Tempting as those which wrought our mother’s woe; | |
| Soft shines the mango on its stem so tall, | |
| Rich gleams beneath the melon’s golden ball; | 30 |
| How feasts the eye upon the bell-shaped pear! | |
| Bright cherries look like corals strung in air; | |
| The purple plum, the grape the hand may reach, | |
| Vie with the downy-skinned and blushing peach; | |
| Though small, its place the luscious strawberry claims, | 35 |
| Mid snowy flowers the radiant orange flames; | |
| To quench the thirst the cooling guava see, | |
| And ripe pomegranates melting on the tree. | |
| And here, too, England’s favorite fruit is seen, | |
| The red-cheeked apple, veiled by leaves of green; | 40 |
| Ah! at the sight sweet thoughts of home awake, | |
| And foreign lands are welcomed for its sake. | |
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| Thrice genial clime! O favored, sweet Cabul! | |
| Well art thou named the blessed, the beautiful! | |
| With snow-peaked hills around thee,—guarding arms! | 45 |
| Ah! would thy sons were worthy of thy charms! | |
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