Keep his heart pure and uncontaminate, Till at the written hour he should be found Fit servant of the Lord, without a spot.

Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled
In that beloved solitude!

Is the morn fair, and doth the freshening breeze
Flow with cool current o'er his cheek?
Lo! underneath the broad-leaved sycamore
With lids half-closed he lies,
Dreaming of days to come.

His dog beside him, in mute blandishment,
Now licks his listless hand;

Now lifts an anxious and expectant eye,
Courting the wonted caress.

Or comes the Father of the Rains
From his caves in the uttermost West,
Comes he in darkness and storms?
When the blast is loud;
When the waters fill

The traveller's tread in the sands;
When the pouring shower
Streams adown the roof;

When the door-curtain hangs in heavier folds :
When the out-strain'd tent flags loosely:
Within there is the embers' cheerful glow,
The sound of the familiar voice,
The song that lightens toil, .
Domestic Peace and Comfort are within.
Under the common shelter, on dry sand,
The quiet Camels ruminate their food;
The lengthening cord from Moath falls,

As patiently the Old Man

Entwines the strong palm-fibres; by the hearth
The Damsel shakes the coffee-grains,
That with warm fragrance fill the tent;
And while, with dexterous fingers, Thalaba
Shapes the green basket, haply at his feet
Her favourite kidling gnaws the twig,
Forgiven plunderer, for Oneiza's sake.

Or when the winter torrent rolls
Down the deep-channel'd rain-course, foamingly,
Dark with its mountain spoils,
With bare feet pressing the wet sand,
There wanders Thalaba,

The rushing flow, the flowing roar,
Filling his yielded faculties,
A vague, a dizzy, a tumultuous joy.

Or lingers it a vernal brook
Gleaming o'er yellow sands?
Beneath the lofty bank reclined,
With idle eye he views its little waves,
Quietly listening to the quiet flow;
While in the breathings of the stirring gale,
The tall canes bend above,
Floating like streamers on the wind
Their lank uplifted leaves.

Nor rich, nor poor, was Moath; God hath given
Enough, and blest him with a mind content.
No hoarded gold disquieted his dreams :
But ever round his station he beheld
Camels that knew his voice,

And home-birds, grouping at Oneiza's call,
And goats that, morn and eve,

Came with full udders to the Damsel's hand.
Dear child the tent beneath whose shade they dwelt
It was her work; and she had twined
His girdle's many hues ;

And he had seen his robe

Grow in Oneiza's loom.

How often, with a memory-mingled joy Which made her Mother live before his sight, He watch'd her nimble fingers thread the woof! Or at the hand-mill, when she knelt and toil'd, Toss'd the thin cake on spreading palm, Or fix'd it on the glowing oven's side With bare wet arm, and safe dexterity.

'Tis the cool evening hour:
The Tamarind from the dew
Sheathes its young fruit, yet green.
Before their tent the mat is spread;
The Old Man's solemn voice
Intones the holy Book.

What if beneath no lamp-illumined dome,
Its marble walls bedeck'd with flourish'd truth,
Azure and gold adornment? sinks the word
With deeper influence from the Imam's voice,
Where in the day of congregation, crowds
Perform the duty-task?

Their Father is their Priest,

The Stars of Heaven their point of prayer,
And the blue Firmament

The glorious Temple, where they feel
The present Deity.

Yet through the purple glow of eve
Shines dimly the white moon.

The slacken'd bow, the quiver, the long lance,
Rest on the pillar of the Tent.
Knitting light palm-leaves for her brother's brow,
The dark-eyed damsel sits;
The Old Man tranquilly
Up his curl'd pipe inhales
The tranquillizing herb.

So listen they the reed of Thalaba,
While his skill'd fingers modulate
The low, sweet, soothing, melancholy tones.

Or if he strung the pearls of Poesy,
Singing with agitated face

And eloquent arms, and sobs that reach the heart, A tale of love and woe;

Then, if the brightening Moon that lit his face,
In darkness favour'd hers,

Oh! even with such a look, as fables say,
The Mother Ostrich fixes on her egg,
Till that intense affection
Kindle its light of life,

Even in such deep and breathless tenderness
Oneiza's soul is centred on the youth,
So motionless, with such an ardent gaze,
Save when from her full eyes

She wipes away the swelling tears
That dim his image there.

She call'd him Brother; was it sister-love
For which the silver rings

Round her smooth ankles and her tawny arms,

Shone daily brighten'd? for a brother's eye
Were her long fingers tinged,

As when she trimm'd the lamp,

And through the veins and delicate skin
The light shone rosy? that the darken'd lids
Gave yet a softer lustre to her eye?
That with such pride she trick'd
Her glossy tresses, and on holy-day
Wreathed the red flower-crown round
Their waves of glossy jet?

How happily the days

Of Thalaba went by!

Years of his youth how rapidly ye fled!

IV. THALABA FINDS THE SORCERESS MAIMUNA SPINNING

COLD! cold! 'tis a chilly clime
That the youth in his journey hath reach'd,
And he is aweary now,

And faint for lack of food.
Cold! cold! there is no Sun in heaven,
A heavy and uniform cloud
Overspreads the face of the sky,
And the snows are beginning to fall.
Dost thou wish for thy deserts, O Son of Hodeirah ?
Dost thou long for the gales of Arabia ?
Cold! cold! his blood flows languidly,
His hands are red, his lips are blue,
His feet are sore with the frost.
Cheer thee! cheer thee! Thalaba!
A little yet bear up!