Culls the delicious fruit that hangs in air,
The purple plum, green fig, or golden pear,
'Mid sparkling eyes, and hands uplifted there.

At night, when all, assembling round the fire,
Closer and closer draw till they retire,

A tale is told of India or Japan,

Of merchants from Golcond or Astracan,
What time wild nature revelled unrestrained,
And Sinbad travelled and the Caliphs reigned:-
Of Knights renowned from holy Palestine,
And Minstrels, such as swept the lyre divine,
When Blondel came, and Richard* in his Cell
Heard, as he lay, the song he knew so well:-
Of some Norwegian, while the icy gale
Rings in her shrouds and beats her iron-sail,
Among the shining Alps of Polar seas
Immoveable for ever there to freeze!

-

Or some great Caravan, from well to well
Winding as darkness on the desert fell,
In their long march, such as the Prophet bids,
To Mecca from the Land of Pyramids,

And in an instant lost- a hollow wave
Of burning sand their everlasting grave! -
Now the scene shifts to Venice to a square
Glittering with light, all nations masking there,
With light reflected on the tremulous tide,
Where gondolas in gay confusion glide,
Answering the jest, the song on every side;

Richard the First. For the romantic story here alluded to, we are indebted to the French Chroniclers. See FAUCHET. Recueil de l'Origine de la Langue et Poësie Fr.