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 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-walléd 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 citron shadows in the blue : By garden porches on the brim, The costly doors flung open wide, Gold glittering through lamplight dim, And broidered sofas on each side : In sooth it was a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Often, where clear stemmed platans guard The outlet, did I turn away The boat-head down a broad canal From the main river sluiced, where all The sloping of the moonlit sward Was damask work, 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 star-stown 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 crystal arches low Down from the central fountain’s flow Fall’n silver-chiming, 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 vary-coloured shells Wandered engrained. On either side All round about the fragrant marge, From fluted vase, and brazen urn In order, eastern flowers large, Some drooping 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 lemon grove 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, withholding time, But flattering the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Black-green the garden bowers and grots Slumbered : the solemn palms were ranged Above, unwooed of summer wind. A sudden splendour from behind Flushed all the leaves with rich gold green, And flowing rapidly between Their interspaces, counterchanged The level lake with diamond plots Of saffron light. A lovely time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid ! Dark blue the deep sphere overhead, Distinct with vivid stars unrayed, Grew darker from that under-flame ; 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 shadow-chequered lawn Full of the city’s stilly sound. And deep myrrh thickets 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, Right to the carven cedarn doors, Flung inward over spangled floors, Broad-baséd 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 wreathed silvers, look’d to shame The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream’d Upon the moonéd domes aloof In inmost Bagdat, till there seem’d Hundreds of crescents on the roof Of night new-risen, 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 argent-lidded 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 rose-hued 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 Down drooped, in many a floating fold, Engarlanded and diapered With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold, Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirred With merriment of kingly pride, Sole star of all that place and time, I saw him—in his golden prime The Good Haroun Alraschid !