And who was the despot whose wondrous array
Of tyrant charms thus over-wrought
With hues of soft humility
The joys of this enchanting spot? 
There stood she, envied of the closing day,
Loved by the evening star,
Moti, than costliest jewel of Cathay
More rare and lovelier far.

* * * * *

Weep balmy tears,
O dear white Rose, and tell to am’rous airs
They waste their sweetness on thy charms, and chide
Their ling’ring dalliance, o’er the whole world wide
Bid them on buoyant morning wings to move,
And whisper “Love;”
Fair winds, be tender of her blissful name,
On soft AEolian strings weave dainty dream,
Let but the dove
Hear a faint echo of her happy name;
But tell her worth,
Say that at sight of her the evening dies
Upon the earth,
And bees and little flower bells still their mirth
And jasmines whisp’ring of her starry eyes.

* * * * *

And Atma spoke, with love and wonder bold,
“Tread I the valley where the fadeless vine
Drops dew immortal and sweet spices grow
From fragrant roots which in that blessed mould,
Watered by tears of penitential woe,
Drank deep of primal peace and balm divine,
When in the morn of time the tale was told
Of forfeit happiness and ruined shrine? 
Tell me, O beauteous Spirit of the bower,
Is it thy gentle task when others sleep,
To guard all that a fallen world may keep
Of pristine bliss and lost felicities,
The fragrant memory of a purer hour,
The healing aroma of Paradise?”

     Sweet then the blushing maid replied,
     “Among the roses I abide,
     I wake the bird, I watch the bee,
     No greater toil is set for me;
     But tell me, pray thee, with what charge indued
     You wander in this quiet solitude.”

And Atma spoke with joyful fervency,
“I hither came on embassy unguessed,
Most blissful vision of my raptured view,
The dusk delights of quietness and rest
Desired I, nor thought to bid adieu
To all content my fond heart ever knew.

Descending angels of my wisest dreams,
Ye kindly genii, bending from above,
Say, in th’allotment of my life’s high themes,
Were hours left for love? 
A great design and just my soul employs,
Can high resolve and tranced rest agree? 
Or is there aught than loss in changeful joys
Of mortal love, most mortal in its wane
Which I shall see
And call aloud, ‘O Love,’ in vain, in vain.”

“Bloomy roses die,
Sunbeams have no morrow,
Sweetest songs give place to sigh,
Ah, the speechless sorrow,
Pain of by-and-bye.

I too well have known
Gladness lives a-dying,
Joys are often prized when flown,
Loved when past replying,
Sought when left alone.