The Sun.
London, England, 1846-06-05 00:00:00

bard. But the little Persian slave of the Princess has slyly
ssleieppheimd
.ouhte aenndterwsr
annedd tLhaellpahoetßoefekhher
emxipsrtersessses's
tdheestwreiatho
that Ibis' sweet minstrelsy should calm her mind after the
agitation she has that day passed through. He complies,
but Fadladeen, with his usual ill-natured spite, finds fault
with the poet and the performer, saying that, for his part, he
prefers his sweet-scented chibpk. Feramory hearing this,
breaks forth into the wild. and joyous strain of the chibouk
song, and the Princess,rmspired by these enlivening sounds,
dances to the tune. The fumes of the opium he smokes
sends Fadladeen to sleep, and whilst he dreams of Mahomet's
paradise and the Houri, Lalla Bookh and Feramory take
advantage of the opportsnity to avow their mutual love.

SCENE Vll.—The Sandy Waste.
The scene rises and sheds his warm lieams over the dreary
expanse, across which Lalla Rook and her suite are to pur-
sue their toilsome journey, and the caravan resumes its
march.

SCENE VIII.—KIOSK.—CASIIMERE.
Lalla Rookh has at length arrived in the far-famed valley
of Cashmere. If anything could have charmed away the
melancholy of her spirits, it would have been the fresh air
and enchanting scenery of the valley which the Persians so
justly call the unequalled. But neither the wonders nor
glories of the most lovely country under the sun, nor the
gay pomps and processions that meet her on every side, nor
the magnificence of her reception, can steal her heart for a
minute from her sad thoughts. The ro e coloured bridal
veil is flung over her head; the arnbassAms come to to tell
her that all is prepared for the nuptial ceremony, and that
the King awaits her. The glance of Lallah Rookh falls upon
the poet; she wishes to refuse the hand of the proud Mo-
narch, but Fadladeen expostulates with her, reminding
lie,* of the dangers of a refusal. She at length gives way,
and is led forth like a victim to the sacrifice.

SCENE IX.—The Vale of Cashmere and Feast of Roses.
'Twas when the hour of evening came
Upon the lake serene and cool ;
All were abroad—the busiest hive
Oa Bela's hill is less alive,
When saffron beds are full in flower,
Than looked the valley in that hour.
A thousand restless touches played
Through every grove and island shade ;
A thousand sparkling lamps are set
On every dome and minaret;
And fields and pathways, far and near,
Were lighted by a blaze so c' ear,
That you could see in wandering round
The smallest rose leaf on the ground.
Yet do the maids and matrons leave
Their veils at home, that brilliant eve ;
And there were glancing eyes about,
And cheeks that would not dare shine out
In open day, but thought they might
Look lovely then because 'twas night!
And all were free and wandering.
And what a wilderness of flowers !
It seemed as though from all the bowers
And fairest fields of all the year,
The mingled spoil were scattered here.
The lake, too, like a garden breathes,
With the rich buds that o'er it lie—
As if a shower of fairy wreaths
Had fall'n upon it from the sky !
And then the sounds of joy—the beat
Of tabors and of dancing feet;
The minaret crier's chant of glee
Sung from his lighted gallery,
And answered by a ziraleet
From neighouring harem wild and sweet;
The merry laughter, echoing
From gardens, where the silken swing
\ some delighed girl above
The top leaves of the orange grove ;
Or from those infant groups at play
Among the tents that line the way,
Flinging, unaw'd by slave or mother,
Handfuls of roses at each other.
Then, the sounds from the lake—the low whisperings in boats
As they shoot through the moonlight—the dipping of oars—
And the wild airy warbling that everywhere floats
Through the groves round the islands.
But the gentlest of all are those sounds full of feeling
That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing.