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As wandering 'mid the wreathed bowers
He listens to the whispering flowers,
And gathers many a tender tale,
Breath'd on the south wind's balmy gale.
Lo! even now a voice he hears
From one who weeps ambrosial tears.
Hark! she laments the stern decree
That bore her o'er the eastern sea,
With flowers of lowlier birth to vie,
Beneath our cold and clouded sky.

« Oh! wherefore am I drooping here, Far distant from that happier sphere, Where all my race have bloom'd their day, Then sunk in odorous gales away? Theirs was the orient's golden clime, Where Flora revels in her prime; And flowers and fruits are richly strown, Such as these lands have never known: Flowers bright as though the genial dews That fed them had imbibed the hues That deck the radiant bow of heaven, And to their leaves its splendours given. Nor rainbow tints alone are theirs; Nature another charm prepares : Ambrosial sweets her urn distils, And every nectar'd chalice fills. Oh! how unlike this land of gloom, Dark as the precincts of the tomb; Where, undeplored, I droop and pine, Far from the princes of my line, Doomed the cold soil and scentless air, With flowers of low degree to share. And hear, ye plants of noble birth! Amid these creatures of the earth, The meanest of the worthless train, That springs unbidden on the plain,

Claims my high name, and dares to trace
A kindred with my royal race.

“ Where is the flower whose heavenly balm
Has power, like mine, the soul to calm ?
For man the cup of life I fill,
Gifted the storms of time to still;
Or bid the bark of human life
Sail on, regardless of the strife,
While the charm'd wanderer fondly dreams
Of azure skies and silver streams,
And listens to the tempest's roar,
As music from some Eden shore *.

“ No! never yet did climes like this,
Give birth to golden streams of bliss,
Rich as the source whence nature draws
The precious drops that fill my vase.

"Oh! for the regions of the sun,
There, like my sires, my course to run
With all who wear the silver wreath,
And hide the opiate dew,' beneath.”

* From the pleasurable effects produced by the use of opium, take the following passage from the “ Confessions of an English Opium-eater,” descriptive of the feelings of the writer, when he first began to indulge in the frequent use of this soothing but pernicious drug: “ It seemed to me as if then first I stood at a distance and aloof from the uproar of life; as if the tumult, the fever, and the strife, were suspended ; a respite granted from the secret burdens of the heart; a sabbath of repose; a resting-place from human labours. Here were the hopes which blossomed in the paths of life, reconciled with the peace which is in the grave; motions of the intellect unwearied as the heavens, yet for all anxieties a halcyon calm.”

She said, and breathed her sighs around,
And bent her chaplet to the ground.

That sister flower of humbler fame,
Who shar'd with her Papaver's name,
Unheeded raised her blushing head,
And to the breeze her petals spread.
She heard the high-born plant complain,
And answered thus her scornful strain:

“ Proud offspring of that sun-bright land,
By balmy zephyrs gently fann'd;
Clear suns may shine, and spicy gales
Waft fragrance through thy native vales,
Yet would I not exchange with thee
Thy country or thy destiny.
Though lovelier hues may tinge the flowers
That bloom within those eastern bowers,
There also bloom those deep-dyed crimes
That live not in our northern climes.
Yes, scornful flower ! thy tale alone
Would bid me shun that burning zone.
The tyrant thee his treasure deems,
The genius of his murderous dreams,
Dearer to him than gems and gold
The opiate dew' thy leaves unfold;
And many a hapless wretch hath quaff"d
Pale death or misery in the draught
Thy poisoned cup prepares for all
The despot's voice may doom to fall *.

* From the poppy was prepared the fatal draught which the emperors (of the East) employed to destroy such persons 'whom they did not dare take off in public. Such were the means which Aurengzebe used to dispatch his

Oh! turn thee to that orient clime
Where Flora revels in her prime,
And flowers and fruit are richly strown,
Such as our land has never known.

The gardens of the Gul' be thine ;
For me, this northern isle be mine.
Though the chill dew and beating storm
May bend and bruise my fragile forin,
Still would I bid my leaves expand,
Like freedom's banners, o'er a land
Where man, the human flower, attains
A moral growth thy sultan's plains
In all their range have never known,
Since there the lordly plant hath grown.

“ And vain thy boast to chase away* The storms that cloud life's April day;

nephew Sepe Chekough, and others his relations, in the fortress of Gualiar. “ The poust,” says Bernier, “is the first thing brought to them in the morning, and they have nothing given them to eat till they have drunk a great cup full of it. This emaciates them exceedingly, and maketh them die insensibly; they losing, little by little, their strength and understanding, and growing torpid and senseless."-Pennants Outlines of the Globe.

Mad. Genlis observes of the poust :

« C'est ce breuvage mortel que les tyrans de ce pays font prendre à leurs frères et aux princes de leur sang, et qui suivant la dose, les rend imbécilles ou les fait mourir.”

* For the unhappy consequences of the excessive use of opium, see “ Confessions of an Opium-eater:".

“ I am now arrived at an Iliad of woes; for I have now to record the pains of opium,

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