4
AMIR KHAN.
A fear that Heaven in wrath had madeThat face with seraph-charms arrayed,And then denied in mockery thereTo breathe upon a face so fair!Without that spark of heavenly flame,Which burns unchanging, still the same;Without that bright ethereal charm;O! what were beauty's angel form?
The breeze as it sweeps o'er the poisonous flower,Dripping with night's damp, blistering shower,Laden with woe, disease, and death,Fading youth's bloom with its passing breath,Blighting each flower of various hue,Ne'er o'er its fated victim threwSo dark a shade, a cloud so drear,As hovered o'er the Subahdar.
Cool and refreshing sighs the breezeThrough the long walk of tzinnar-trees,8And cool upon the water's breastThe pale moon rocks herself to rest,—Yes! calmer, brighter, cooler farThan the fevered brow of the Subahdar!
Amreta was fair as the morning beam,As it glides o'er the wave of the Wuller's stream,9But O! she was cold as the marble floorThat glitters beneath the nightly shower.
Where was that eye which none could scan,Which once belonged to Amir Khan?
