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THE HOURI.

A PERSIAN TALE.

In the 414th year of the Hegira, Shah Abbas Selim reigned in the kingdom of Iraum. He was a young and an accomplished Prince, who had distinguished himself alike by his valour in the field, and by his wisdom in the cabinet. Justice was fairly and equally administered thoughout his dominions; the nation grew wealthy and prosperous under his sway; and the neighbouring potentates, all of whom either feared his power, or admired his character, were ambitious of being numbered among the friends and allies of Abbas Selim. Amidst all these advantages, a tendency to pensiveness and melancholy, which had very early marked his disposition, began to assume an absolute dominion over him. He avoided the pleasures of the chase, the banquet, and the Harem; and would shut himself up for days and weeks in

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his Library, the most valuable and extensive collection of Oriental literature then extant, where he passed his time principally in the study of the Occult Sciences, and in the perusal of the works of the Magicians and the Astrologers. One of the most remarkable features of his character was the indifference with which he regarded the beautiful females, Circassians, Georgians, and Franks, who thronged his Court, and who tasked their talents and charms to the utmost to find favour in the eyes of the Shah. Exclamations of fondness for some unknown object would, nevertheless, often burst from his lips in the midst of his profoundest reveries; and, during his slumbers, he was frequently heard to murmur expressions of the most passionate love. Such of his subjects whose offices placed them near his person, were deeply afflicted at the symptoms which they observed, and feared that they indicated an aberration of reason; but when called upon to give any directions, or take any step for the management of the affairs of the nation, he still exhibited his wonted sagacity and wisdom, and excited the praise and wonder of all.

He had been lately observed to hold long and frequent consultations with the Magicians. The kingdom had been scoured from east to west in search of the most skilful and learned men of this

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class but whatever might be the questions which Abbas Selim propounded, it seemed that none of them could give satisfactory answers. His melancholy deepened, and his fine manly form was daily wasting under the influence of some unknown malady. The only occupations which seemed at all to soothe him, were singing and playing on his Dulcimer. The tunes were described, by those who sometimes contrived to catch a few notes of them, to be singularly wild and original, and such as they had never heard before; and a Courtier, more daring than the rest, once ventured so near the royal privacy as to be able to distinguish the words of a Song, which were to the following effect:

"Sweet Spirit! ne'er did I behold
Thy ivory neck, thy locks of gold;
Or gaze into thy full dark eye;
Or on thy snowy bosom lie;

Or take in mine thy small white hand;
Or bask beneath thy smilings bland;

Or walk, enraptured, by the side
Of thee, my own immortal Bride!

I see thee not; yet oft' I hear
Thy soft voice whispering in mine ear;
And, when the evening breeze I seek,
I feel thy kiss upon my cheek;

And when the moon-beams softly fall

On hill, and tower, and flower-crown'd wall,
Methinks the patriarch's dream I see,

The steps that lead to Heaven and Thee!

I've heard thee wake, with touch refined,
The viewless harp-strings of the wind;
When on my ears their soft tones fell,
Sweet as the voice of Israfel.*

I've seen thee, midst the lightning's sheen,
Lift up for me Heaven's cloudy screen,
And give one glimpse, one transient glare,
Of the full blaze of glory there.

Oft' 'midst my wanderings wild and wide,
I know that thou art by my side;
For flowers breathe sweeter 'neath thy tread,
And suns burn brighter o'er thy head;
And though thy steps so noiseless steal;
Though thou did'st ne'er thy form reveal,
My throbbing heart, and pulses high,
Tell me, sweet Spirit! thou art nigh.

Oh! for the hour, the happy hour,
When Azrael'st wings shall to thy bower
Bear my enfranchised Soul away,
Unfetter'd with these chains of clay!
For what is he, whom men so fear,
Azrael, the solemn and severe !

*The Angel of Music.

+ The Angel of Death.

Y

What, but the white-robed Priest is he,
Who weds my happy Soul to thee?

Then shall we rest in bowers that bloom
With more than Araby's perfume;
And gaze on scenes so fair and bright,
Thought never soar'd so proud a height;
And list to many a sweeter note

Than swells th' enamour'd Bulbul's throat;
And one melodious Ziraleet❤

Through Heaven's eternal year repeat!"

One evening, when the Shah was thus occupied, his Prime Minister and favourite, Prince Ismael, introduced into his apartment a venerable man, whose white hair, long flowing beard, and wan and melancholy, but highly intellectual features, failed not to arrest the attention, and command the respect, of all who beheld him. His garments were plain and simple, even to coarseness; but he was profusely decorated with jewels, apparently of considerable value; and bore a long white wand in his hand.

"I have at length, Oh King!" said the Minister," met with the famous Achmet Hassan, who professes, that if it be in the power of any

A Song of rejoicing.

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