618   The Indian Serenade

I ARISE from dreams of thee
   In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
   And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
   And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me—who knows how?
   To thy chamber window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
   On the dark, the silent stream—
And the Champak’s odours [pine]
   Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale’s complaint,
   It dies upon her heart,
As I must on thine,
   O belovèd as thou art!

O lift me from the grass!
   I die! I faint! I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
   On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
   My heart beats loud and fast:
O press it to thine own again,
   Where it will break at last!

619   Night

SWIFTLY walk o’er the western wave,
           Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave,—
Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
Which make thee terrible and dear,—
           Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,
           Star-inwrought!
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;
Kiss her until she be wearied out.
Then wander o’er city and sea and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand—
           Come, long-sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn
           I sigh’d for thee;
When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
And the weary Day turn’d to her rest,
Lir gering like an unloved guest,
           I sigh’d for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried,
           ‘Wouldst thou me?’
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmur’d like a noontide bee,
‘Shall I nestle near thy side?
Wouldst thou me?’—And I replied,
           ‘No, not thee!’

Death will come when thou art dead,
           Soon, too soon—
Sleep will come when thou art fled.
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, belovàd Night—
Swift be thine approaching flight,
           Come soon, soon!

620   From the Arabic

AN IMITATION

MY faint spirit was sitting in the light
         Of thy looks, my love;
   It panted for thee like the hind at noon
         For the brooks, my love.
   Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest’s flight,
         Bore thee far from me;
   My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon,
         Did companion.

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,
           Or the death they bear,
   The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove
           With the wings of care;
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,
            Shall mine cling to thee,
   Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,
         It may bring to thee.

621   Lines

   WHEN the lamp is shatter’d,
The light in the dust lies dead;
   When the cloud is scatter’d,
The rainbow’s glory is shed;
   When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remember’d not;
   When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.

   As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
   The heart’s echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute—
   No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruin’d cell,
   Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman’s knell.