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(From Ruins of Many Lands)
CITY of palaces! how sweet the sight, | |
| As there it spreads, all steeped in golden light! | |
| Flashing as if some precious gem were set | |
| On each rich dome and pointed minaret, | |
| The plane and cypress lofty as the towers, | 5 |
| And homes still seen through intermingling bowers. | |
| Behold the stir of life! the turbaned throng | |
| Comes forth like bees, and pours the walks along: | |
| Hark! from his shrine the Muezzin calls to prayer, | |
| And far those sounds the wandering breezes bear: | 10 |
| “Allah is great!” seems whispering through the sky; | |
| “Allah is great!” the caverned hills reply; | |
| The peasant hears, and, kneeling on the sod | |
| With face toward Mecca, breathes the name of God; | |
| And e’en the child, mid blossomed groves at play, | 15 |
| Stops in his pastime—“God is great!” to say! * * * * * | |
| Shiraz! the proud! not yet her fame hath ceased, | |
| Nurse of bright genius, Athens of the East! | |
| Where, sage and poet, brilliant Sadi sprang, | |
| And, crowned with Love’s own garlands, Hafiz sang,— | 20 |
| Hafiz, who shed Joy’s spell on every theme, | |
| And painted life one rapturous summer dream. | |
| With verdure still the poet’s lawns are clad, | |
| Still roses bend o’er crystal Roknabad; | |
| And maidens, like young peris, fresh and gay, | 25 |
| Dance ’neath the shades of bowery Mossela; | |
| Now to crisp gold Morn turns the babbling waves | |
| That murmur near the tuneful brothers’ graves, | |
| And yew-trees, softening, cast no shade of gloom, | |
| Bending like calm blessed watchers o’er each tomb. | 30 |
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| But not for us the gorgeous city smiles, | |
| With couch of softness, and sweet woman’s wiles; | |
| ’T is ours to urge our lone untiring way | |
| Through wrecks of years, memorials of decay, | |
| Striving with curious aim aside to cast | 35 |
| The veil which shrouds the Isis of the past. | |
| Near Shiraz giant groups of ruin stand, | |
| The pride of taste, the boast of Persia’s land: | |
| The dark o’erhanging hills our footsteps gain, | |
| Wild and majestic sweeps that mountain-chain; | 40 |
| No trees adorn the slopes, or corn, or flowers, | |
| But ruined shrines of fire, and mouldered towers. | |
| Ah! well the smile from azure skies hath gone, | |
| And Nature here put Terror’s garment on: | |
| The clouds their inky pall have hung on high, | 45 |
| The blast comes muttering like a spirit by. | |
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