ice still remains vibrating on my soul;
Heavens! how did the sugared words fall from her sweeter lips;
Alas! all that she said to me in that dream has escaped from my memory,
Although it was my care till break of day to repeat over and over her
sweet words.
The day, unless illuminated by her beauty, is, to my eyes, of nocturnal
darkness.
Happy day that first I gazed upon that lovely face!
May the eyes of Jami long be blessed with pleasing visions, since they
presented to his view last night
The object, on whose account he passed his waking life in
expectation.[1]

His beautiful voice ceased, and with infinite skill he wove a few
strains of the melody into the final chords he played when he had
finished singing. It was all so entirely novel, so unlike any music most
of us had ever heard, and it was so undeniably good, that every one
applauded and said something to the singer in turn, expressing the
greatest admiration and appreciation. Miss Westonhaugh was the last to
speak.

"It is perfectly lovely," she said. "I wish I could understand the
words--are they as sweet as the music?"

"Sweeter," he answered, and he gave an offhand translation of two or
three verses.

"Beautiful indeed," she said; "and now sing me another, please." There
was no resisting such an appeal, with the personal pronoun in the
singular number. He moved a little nearer, and emphatically sang to her,
and to no one else. A song of the same character as the first, but, I
thought, more passionate and less dreamy, as his great sweet voice
swelled and softened and rose again in burning vibrations and waves of
sound. She did not ask a translation this time, but some one else did,
after the applause had subsided.

"I cannot translate these things," said Isaacs, "so as to do them
justice, or give you any idea of the strength and vitality of the
Persian verses. Perhaps Griggs, who understands Persian very well and is
a literary man, may do it for you. I would rather not try." I professed
my entire inability to comply with the request, and to turn the
conversation asked him where he had learned to play the guitar so well.

"Oh," he answered, "in Istamboul, years ago. Everybody plays in
Istamboul--and most people sing love-songs. Besides it is so easy," and
he ran scales up and down the strings with marvellous rapidity to
illustrate what he said.

"And do you never sing English songs, Mr. Isaacs?" asked the