AMIR KHAN.
11
'Twas silent: not a voice was heard—No sigh, no murmur, not one wordWas echoed through that brilliant hall;The spell of silence hung o'er all;For there had paused the wing of death,The midnight spirit's withering breath.
At that still hour no sound aroseTo break the charm of deep repose;The lake was glittering, and the breezeSighed softly through the tzinnar trees,And kissed the Wuller's wave of blue,Or sipped the gull's light trembling dew;But not a murmur, not a sighWas wafted by the night-breeze by,Through that wide hall and princely bower,At midnight's calm and solemn hour!
O! where was Love his night-watch keeping!Or was the truant sweetly sleeping?Where was he at that hour of rest,By him created, claimed, and blessed?Where were the tears of Love, and Sorrow,The sigh which Sympathy can borrow?Where were regret, and chill despair?Where was Amreta?—where, O where?
Hark! 'tis the night-breeze softly playing,Through veils of glittering silver straying—No! 'tis a step—so quick, so light,That the wild flower which weeps at night,
