from The Bijou Literary Annual, 1828
author: By Miss Pickersgill, Authoress of Tales of the Harem
source date: 1828
edition published: 20170606
availability: Freely available via a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License

The Bijou;
or Annual of Literature and the Arts

compiled by William Fraser
William Pickering London
1828
pp. 241-343sic

The Oriental Love-Letter

By Miss Pickersgill, Authoress of Tales of the Harem

The Sun in parting splendor set
On mosque, and dome, and minaret,
And many a golden ruddy beam
Lit up each pure and gushing stream;
And leaves and flowers were gemm'd with dew,
Lavished on buds of every hue,
Which like a fair Sultana's zone,
Or coronal of Peri shone.
And in her own sequester'd bower,
Within the Harem's still retreat,
Sitara at that lovely hour;
Of Eve had chos'n her lonely seat;
For on embroidered couches lay'd,
Reclin'd the pensive Moslem maid.

In vain the beauteous woodbines wound,
Like Love's light bonds the casement round,
Wafting their tribute of perfume
And laughing in their roseate bloom;
For all neglected lay her lute
Whose every moving strain was mute!
No longer was her buoyant song
Borne by the southern breeze along,
Nor flowers, nor lute, nor sparkling stream,
Could woo her from Love's witching dream.
Though close within her Harem bower,
They deem'd her safe from Love's fond power,
Yet in what deep sequester'd cell
Will not the winged urchin dwell:
For e'en within a flow'ry wreath
Young Love his first fond vows may breathe;
And in bright emblem flowers declare,
Joy —absence—thraldom —hope—despair!—

Perchance amidst those flowers he dwells,
Nestling beneath the myrtle bells,
And on its fragrance wafts a sigh
While sunned beneath her radiant eye.
And e'en those buds of crimson hue
Breathe vows of love both pure and true,
While the bright golden flowret bears,
His ever changing hopes and fears,
And Beauty's type, the joyous rose,
Unfolds the soft and flattering tale,
That her young cheek with luster glows,
Which makes his vaunted bloom seem pale.
Then may not her young bosom well,
Receive the vows those emblems tell;
And her dark downcast eyes reveal
Thoughts which her tongue might else conceal? —

And why then from the garland's pride
Does she those simple flowers divide,
And place them pensively apart,
As if some chord within her heart
Vibrated? Know amidst their bloom
Those purple buds of absence breathe,
Which well might shed a passing gloom
O'er her fair brow. Did not the wreath
Of fairy hope from spring's bright bowers
Shine in those tufts of snowy flowers,
Which, joined with Memory's solace still,
Shields Love's young buds from winter's chill.