She gazeth upward fixedly,
And deeply feels his glance of might,
While, stamped with his own effigy,
Each pearl would range itself aright.
Thus wreath'd with bows, with hues thus grac'd,
With gladness beams her face so fair,
While he, to meet her, maketh haste,
And yet, alas! can reach her ne'er.
So, by the harsh decree of Fate,
Thou modest from me, dearest one;
And were I Helms e'en, the Great,
What would avail his chariot-throne?
1815. ——- SULEIKA.