Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings, The exil'd Spirit sighing roves;
Now, upon SYRIA'S land of roses
Softly the light of Eve reposes,
And, like a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted LEBANON;
Whose head in wintry grandeur tow'rs,
And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flow'rs,
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.
To one who look'd from upper air
O'er all th' enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow,
The life, the sparkling from below!
But naught can charm the luckless PERI;
Her soul is sad her wings are weary-
Joyless she sees the Sun look down
On that great Temple, once his own,
Whose lonely columns stand sublime,
Flinging their shadows from on high,
Like dials, which the wizard, Time,
Had rais'd to count his ages by!
Yet haply there may lie conceal'd
Beneath those Chambers of the Sun,
Some amulet of gems, anneal'd
In upper fires, some tablet seal'd
With the great name of SOLOMON,
Which, spell'd by her illumin'd eyes,
May teach her where beneath the moon,
In earth or ocean, lies the boon,
The charm, that can restore so soon
An erring Spirit to the skies.
Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither;
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of Even