In Shushan

O’ER lordly Shushan’s terrac’d walls

The starry cloak of midnight falls,

And naught doth break the solemn spell

Save the soft note of Philomel,

Or some faint fountain’s silvery tongue

Lulling the gardens with its song.

The yellow moon doth rule the sky

And gild the dark-blue dome on high,

And o’er the marble stairways cold

A robe of tissue, woof’d with gold,

Doth seem to cling, a garment rare

Enmantling shoulders lustrous fair!

The King doth wassail hold to-night—

For him the hours have pinions light;