Of passion, which stirs the Peri's breast,
Whom her dear one's winglets fan to rest;
I've dwelt i' the rose-cup, and drunk the tone—
Of my lover the Bulbul, all low and lone;
And the maid's soul-song, who forth hath crept,
When pale stars peer'd, and night flow'rs wept.
But oh! from the songs of Cashmire's vale,
The rose, the lute, and the nightingale,
From flow'rs, whose odours were too divine;
From gems of beauty whose souls were mine;