THE TAAJE MAHAL.
Empress of beauty! must those eyes of light,
Stars of my soul, that o'er life's paths have thrown
Rays than the sun's beams more serenely bright,
Be quenched in darkness; has their lustre flown
For ever; and the vermeil of thy lips
Sustained a last, immutable eclipse?
Oh! thou wert far more beautiful than those
Fair forms of geniï by poets sung,
More blooming than thine own Cashmerian rose,
O'er thy soft cheek a crimson tint was flung,
Like morn's first flushes, or the blush that dyes
The glowing sun-sets of our eastern skies.
Fair as thou wert, thy beauty's light was dim
To the more holy radiance of thine heart,
For thou wert pure as heaven-born seraphim,
Thou wert my blessed one—thou art, thou art—
Still dost thou live and breathe, and I may strain,
Thy form in rapture to my breast again.
