Above bright orient seas, sun-kissed, arise
The legend haunted isles, in whose dim groves
The ghouls and genii sang their burning loves;
Whose forest paths are rich with fragrant sighs
Of winds that lingering pass, where sleeping lies
The glittering cobra, or where softly moves
The lithe, sleek tiger, whose fierce blood-thirst proves
The minister of death and swift surprise,
There, sad and sleep-oppressed, the weary slave
Sinks into dreams, where fallen orange blooms
Lie like white stars amid the odorous shade,
And mighty ruins mark an empire's grave.
What nations slumber in those verdurous glooms?
How soon shall we to such oblivion fade?