The flowers are mine—­the blushes of the rose,
The violet—­charming Zephyr to the shade;
Mine the quick light that in the Maybeam glows,
And mine the day-dream in the lonely glade.

Love, sons of earth—­for love is earth’s soft lore,
Look where ye will—­earth overflows with me;
Learn from the waves that ever kiss the shore,
And the winds nestling on the heaving sea.

’All teaches love!’—­The sweet voice, like a dream,
Melted in light; yet still the airs above,
The waving sedges, and the whispering stream,
And the green forest rustling, murmur’d ‘love!’
As the voices died away, the Egyptian seized the hand of Apaecides, and led him, wandering, intoxicated, yet half-reluctant, across the chamber towards the curtain at the far end; and now, from behind that curtain, there seemed to burst a thousand sparkling stars; the veil itself, hitherto dark, was now lighted by these fires behind into the tenderest blue of heaven.  It represented heaven itself—­such a heaven, as in the nights of June might have shone down over the streams of Castaly.  Here and there were painted rosy and aerial clouds, from which smiled, by the limner’s art, faces of divinest beauty, and on which reposed the shapes of which Phidias and Apelles dreamed.  And the stars which studded the transparent azure rolled rapidly as they shone, while the music, that again woke with a livelier and lighter sound, seemed to imitate the melody of the joyous spheres.

‘Oh! what miracle is this, Arbaces,’ said Apaecides in faltering accents.  ’After having denied the gods, art thou about to reveal to me...’

‘Their pleasures!’ interrupted Arbaces, in a tone so different from its usual cold and tranquil harmony that Apaecides started, and thought the Egyptian himself transformed; and now, as they neared the curtain, a wild—­a loud—­an exulting melody burst from behind its concealment.  With that sound the veil was rent in twain—­it parted—­it seemed to vanish into air:  and a scene, which no Sybarite ever more than rivalled, broke upon the dazzled gaze of the youthful priest.  A vast banquet-room stretched beyond, blazing with countless lights, which filled the warm air with the scents of frankincense, of jasmine, of violets, of myrrh; all that the most odorous flowers, all that the most costly spices could distil, seemed gathered into one ineffable and ambrosial essence:  from the light columns that sprang upwards to the airy roof, hung draperies of white, studded with golden stars.  At the extremities of the room two fountains cast up a spray, which, catching the rays of the roseate light, glittered like countless diamonds.  In the centre of the room as they entered there rose slowly from the floor, to the sound of unseen minstrelsy, a table spread with all the viands which sense ever devoted to fancy, and vases of that lost Myrrhine fabric, so glowing in its colors, so transparent in its material, were crowned with the exotics of