Recollections of the Arabian Nights

With this poem should be compared the description of Harun al Rashid’sGarden of Gladness in the story of Nur-al-din Ali and the damsel Anisal Talis in the Thirty-Sixth Night. The style appears to have beenmodelled on Coleridge’s Kubla Khan and Lewti, and the influence ofColeridge is very perceptible throughout the poem.

When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew freeIn the silken sail of infancy,The tide of time flow’d back with me,The forward-flowing tide of time;And many a sheeny summer-morn,Adown the Tigris I was borne,By Bagdat’s shrines of fretted gold,High-walled gardens green and old;True Mussulman was I and sworn,For it was in the golden primeOf good Haroun Alraschid.

Anight my shallop, rustling thro’The low and bloomed foliage, droveThe fragrant, glistening deeps, and cloveThe citron-shadows in the blue:By garden porches on the brim,The costly doors flung open wide,Gold glittering thro’ lamplight dim,And broider’d sofas on each side:In sooth it was a goodly time,For it was in the golden primeOf good Haroun Alraschid.

Often, where clear-stemm’d platans guardThe outlet, did I turn awayThe boat-head down a broad canalFrom the main river sluiced, where allThe sloping of the moon-lit swardWas damask-work, and deep inlayOf braided blooms unmown, which creptAdown to where the waters slept.A goodly place, a goodly time,For it was in the golden primeOf good Haroun Alraschid.

A motion from the river wonRidged the smooth level, bearing onMy shallop thro’ the star-strown calm,Until another night in nightI enter’d, from the clearer light,Imbower’d vaults of pillar’d palm,Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clombHeavenward, were stay’d beneath the domeOf hollow boughs.—A goodly time,For it was in the golden primeOf good Haroun Alraschid.

Still onward; and the clear canalIs rounded to as clear a lake.From the green rivage many a fallOf diamond rillets musical,Thro’ little crystal arches lowDown from the central fountain’s flowFall’n silver-chiming, seem’d to shakeThe sparkling flints beneath the prow.A goodly place, a goodly time,For it was in the golden primeOf good Haroun Alraschid.

Above thro’ many a bowery turnA walk with vary-colour’d shellsWander’d engrain’d. On either sideAll round about the fragrant margeFrom fluted vase, and brazen urnIn order, eastern flowers large,Some dropping low their crimson bellsHalf-closed, and others studded wideWith disks and tiars, fed the timeWith odour in the golden primeOf good Haroun Alraschid.

Far off, and where the lemon-groveIn closest coverture upsprung,The living airs of middle nightDied round the bulbul as he sung;Not he: but something which possess’dThe darkness of the world, delight,Life, anguish, death, immortal love,Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress’d.Apart from place, withholding time,But flattering the golden primeOf good Haroun Alraschid.

Black the garden-bowers and grotsSlumber’d: the solemn palms were rangedAbove, unwoo’d of summer wind:A sudden splendour from behindFlush’d all the leaves with rich gold-green,And, flowing rapidly betweenTheir interspaces, counterchangedThe level lake with diamond-plotsOf dark and bright. A lovely time,For it was in the golden primeOf good Haroun Alraschid.

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead,Distinct with vivid stars inlaid,Grew darker from that under-flame:So, leaping lightly from the boat,With silver anchor left afloat,In marvel whence that glory cameUpon me, as in sleep I sankIn cool soft turf upon the bank,Entranced with that place and time,So worthy of the golden primeOf good Haroun Alraschid.

Thence thro’ the garden I was drawn—A realm of pleasance, many a mound,And many a shadow-chequer’d lawnFull of the city’s stilly sound,And deep myrrh-thickets blowing roundThe stately cedar, tamarisks,Thick rosaries of scented thorn,Tall orient shrubs, and obelisksGraven with emblems of the time,In honour of the golden primeOf good Haroun Alraschid.

With dazed vision unawaresFrom the long alley’s latticed shadeEmerged, I came upon the greatPavilion of the Caliphat.Right to the carven cedarn doors,Flung inward over spangled floors,Broad-based flights of marble stairsRan up with golden balustrade,After the fashion of the time,And humour of the golden primeOf good Haroun Alraschid.

The fourscore windows all alightAs with the quintessence of flame,A million tapers flaring brightFrom twisted silvers look’d to shameThe hollow-vaulted dark, and stream’dUpon the mooned domes aloofIn inmost Bagdat, till there seem’dHundreds of crescents on the roofOf night new-risen, that marvellous time,To celebrate the golden primeOf good Haroun Alraschid.

Then stole I up, and trancedlyGazed on the Persian girl alone,Serene with argent-lidded eyesAmorous, and lashes like to raysOf darkness, and a brow of pearlTressed with redolent ebony,In many a dark delicious curl,Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone;The sweetest lady of the time,Well worthy of the golden primeOf good Haroun Alraschid.

Six columns, three on either side,Pure silver, underpropt a richThrone of the massive ore, from whichDown-droop’d, in many a floating fold,Engarlanded and diaper’dWith inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold.Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr’dWith merriment of kingly pride,Sole star of all that place and time,I saw him—in his golden prime,

“O Bulbul, any rose of GulistanShall brush her veil”.