Recollections of the Arabian Nights

When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free

In the silken sail of infancy,

The tide of time flowed back with me

The forwardflowing tide of time;

And many a sheeny summermorn,

Adown the Tigris I was borne,

By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold,

Highwalléd gardens green and old;

True Mussulman was I and sworn,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Anight my shallop, rustling through

The low and blooméd foliage, drove

The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove

The citronshadows in the blue:

By gardenporches on the brim,

The costly doors flung open wide,

Gold glittering through lamplight dim,

And broidered sophas on each side:

In sooth it was a goodly time,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Often, where clearstemmed platans guard

The outlet, did I turn away

The boathead down a broad canal

From the main river sluiced, where all

The sloping of the moonlit sward

Was damaskwork, and deep inlay

Of breaded blosms unmown, which crept

Adown to where the waters slept.

A goodly place, a goodly time,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid!

A motion from the river won

Ridged the smooth level, bearing on

My shallop through the starstrown calm,

Until another night in night

I entered, from the clearer light,

Imbowered vaults of pillared palm,

Imprisoning sweets, which as they clomb

Heavenward, were stayed beneath the dome

Of hollow boughs.—A goodly time,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid!

Still onward; and the clear canal

Is rounded to as clear a lake.

From the green rivage many a fall

Of diamond rillets musical,

Through little chrystal arches low

Down from the central fountain's flow

Fall'n silverchiming, seemed to shake

The sparkling flints beneath the prow.

A goodly place, a goodly time,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid!

Above through many a bowery turn

A walk with varycoloured shells

Wandered engrained. On either side

All round about the fragrant marge,

From fluted vase, and brazen urn

In order, eastern flowers large,

Some dropping low their crimson bells

Half-closed, and others studded wide

With disks and tiars, fed the time

With odour in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Far off, and where the lemongrove

In closest coverture upsprung,

The living airs of middle night

Died round the bulbul as he sung.

Not he: but something which possessed

The darkness of the world, delight,

Life, anguish, death, immortal love

Ceasing not, mingled, unrepressed,

Apart from place, witholding time,

But flattering the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Blackgreen the gardenbowers and grots

Slumbered: the solemn palms were ranged

Above, unwooed of summer wind.

A sudden splendour from behind

Flushed all the leaves with rich goldgreen,

And flowing rapidly between

Their interspaces, counterchanged

The level lake with diamondplots

Of saffron light. A lovely time,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid!

Darkblue the deep sphere overhead,

Distinct with vivid stars unrayed,

Grew darker from that underflame;

So, leaping lightly from the boat,

With silver anchor left afloat,

In marvel whence that glory came

Upon me, as in sleep I sank

In cool soft turf upon the bank,

Entrancéd with that place and time,

So worthy of the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Thence through the garden I was borne—

A realm of pleasance, many a mound,

And many a shadowchequered lawn

Full of the city's stilly sound.

And deep myrrhthickets blowing round

The stately cedar, tamarisks,

Thick rosaries of scented thorn,

Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks

Graven with emblems of the time,

In honour of the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

With dazéd vision unawares

From the long alley's latticed shade

Emerged, I came upon the great

Pavilion of the Caliphat.[errata 1]

Right to the carven cedarn doors,

Flung inward over spangled floors,

Broadbaséd flights of marble stairs

Ran up with golden balustrade,

After the fashion of the time,

And humour of the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

The fourscore windows all alight

As with the quintessence of flame,

A million tapers flaring bright

From wreathéd silvers looked to shame

The hollowvaulted dark, and streamed

Upon the moonéd domes aloof

In inmost Bagdat, till there seemed

Hundreds of crescents on the roof

Of night newrisen, that marvellous time,

To celebrate the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Then stole I up, and trancedly

Gazed on the Persian girl alone,

Serene with argentlidded eyes

Amorous, and lashes like to rays

Of darkness, and a brow of pearl

Tresséd with redolent ebony,

In many a dark delicious curl,

Flowing below her rosehued zone;

The sweetest lady of the time,

Well worthy of the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Six columns, three on either side,

Pure silver, underpropped a rich

Throne o' the massive ore, from which

Downdrooped, in many a floating fold,

Engarlanded and diapered

With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold.

Thereon, his deep eye laughterstirred

With merriment of kingly pride,

Sole star of all that place and time,

I saw him—in his golden prime,

The Good Haroun Alraschid!