In Caypha's hallowed garden-grounds,
All shadowy, green and cool,
Where leaps the living fountain-jet,
Where sleeps the glassy pool,—
Swathed in an atmosphere of joy,
There dwells a virgin flower,
Whose breath and beauty seem to fill
Its consecrated bower.

The bulbul seems to love it, too,
And pours its pensive tune
Through the soft lapse and slumbrous light
Of the admiring moon;
And when the morning kindleth up,
The sun's enamoured beams
Look in to bless with fostering glow
This flower of all my dreams.

The acacia drops its silver dew,
The palm its tender gloom,
To cherish this 'consummate flower,'
And share its full perfume;
And Syria's ardent sky looks down
On its expanding form,
But seldom there hangs lowering cloud,
Or wakes the voice of storm.

Its eyes (oh, wild, yet winning eyes!),
Which shame the proud gazelle,
Shine like twin trembling gems that lie
In ocean's rosy shell.
Now they repose in quiet trance
Beneath thought's holy sway;
Anon, they burn with haughty fire,
To scare my hopes away.

So sweet its fragrance, and so far
It floats on breeze and blast,
The pilgrim halts within its reach,
And deems the desert passed;
The chief who flies on foaming steed
Before unequal foes,
Checks for a space his fearful flight
To breathe it as he goes.

The simoom's fleet and fiery wing
Abhors all grateful smells,
And enters with its baneful power
Where aught of freshness dwells;
But this one odour, closely sealed
Within my faithful heart,
Outlives the weary, wasting wind,
And will not thence depart.

In the soft air of pastoral life,
Away from griefs and glooms,
Untouched by sorrow, sin, or strife,
This garden glory blooms.
Maiden, that blush of modest thought
Reveals some hidden power,
Think of thy own dear, gentle name,
And thou wilt know the flower.

Oh, 'twere a blessing lent of Heaven
Through long enraptured years,
To watch and shed around thee, too,
Pure love's ecstatic tears!
My desert home, my tribe, my steed,
My sword, my roving will,
I'd yield them all with thee, sweet flower,
To dwell on Carmel's hill!