I need scarcely
expatiate upon the delicate and long-continuing fragrance which this
luxuriant perfume imparts to all things with which it comes in contact;
it is peculiarly calculated for the drawer, writing-desk, &c. since its
aroma is totally unmingled with that most disagreeable effluvium, which
is ever proceeding from alcohol. Lavender-water, _esprit_ de rose &c.
&c. are quite disgusting shut up in box or drawer, but the Atar Gul, is
as delightful there as in the most open and airy space. Some persons
there are, however, who have an antipathy to it, and others will, as
they inhale its delicious odour, fancy with myself, what may be.
THE SONG OF THE ATAR GUL!
I'm come! I'm come! for you've charm'd me here
_Soul of the Rose_, from divine Cashmire
I'm come,--all orient, odorous, rare,
An Eden-breath in your boreal air;
I'm come. I'm come! like a seraph's sigh
Breath'd to ethereal minstrelsy,
And well ye'll deem what a sigh must be
From the tearless heirs of eternity!
I've fled my bright frame from Tirnagh's stream,
And, wand'ring here, am sweet as the dream
Of passion, which stirs the Peri's breast,
Whom her dear one's winglets fan to rest;
I've dwelt i' the rose-cup, and drunk the tone--
Of my lover the Bulbul, all low and lone;
And the maid's soul-song, who forth hath crept,
When pale stars peer'd, and night flow'rs wept.
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