Mrs. Pickersgill, "The Oriental Love-Letter." in The Bijou; (London: William Pickering , 1828)
   
      
         
            
               The Bijou; 
               or Annual of Literature and the Arts
            
            compiled by William Fraser
            
            
               
                  William Pickering
               
               London
            
            1828
            
               
                  pp. 241-343sic
               
            
         
      
      
         
             241 
            
               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!
                342sic 
               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? — 
            
            
             343sic 
            
               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.