I thrill'd such classic haunts to see, Yet even here-I thought of thee. I thought of thee—I thought of thee, All palace-lined, from sea to sea; And ever on its shores the daughters Of the delicious East are seen, Printing the brink with slipper'd feet, And oh, those snowy folds between, What eyes of heaven your glances meet! Peris of light no fairer be— Yet-in Stamboul-I thought of thee. I've thought of thee-I've thought of thee, Through change that teaches to forget; Thy face looks up from every sea, In every star thine eyes are set, Though roving beneath Orient skies, Whose golden beauty breathes of rest, I envy every bird that flies Into the far and clouded West: I think of thee-I think of thee! Oh, dearest! hast thou thought of me? END OF PART I. THE DYING ALCHYMIST. THE night wind with a desolate moan swept by, Screaming upon their hinges, and the moon, The fire beneath his crucible was low; Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals With difficult energy, and when the rod |