Was it not almost on this very
spot that
"The board was spread with fruit and wine,
With grapes of gold, like those that shine
On Casbin's hills;--pomegranates full
Of melting sweetness, and the pears
And sunniest apples that Cabul
In all its thousand gardens bears.
Plantains, the golden and the green,
Malaya's nectar'd mangusteen;
Prunes of Bokara, and sweet nuts
From the far groves of Samarcand,
And Basra dates, and apricots,
Seed of the sun, from Iran's land;--
With rich conserve of Visna cherries,
Of orange flowers, and of those berries
That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles
Feed on in Erac's rocky dells..
Wines, too, of every clime and hue
Around their liquid lustre threw;
Amber Rosolli..
And Shiraz wine, that richly ran..
Melted within the goblets there!"
This reckless, but unsubstantial and very unwholesome meal, was not for us,
and while waiting patiently for the first course to appear, I glanced down
the long table to admire the decorations. They were delightful, consisting
of glass flower-vases spaced regularly along the festive board, and filled
to overflowing with tufts and clumps of flowers. Innumerable plates filled
with fruit and sweetmeats graced the feast, and a magnificent array of
knives and forks gave promise of good things to come.
Presently the expected dainties arrived, resembling but little the
lately-described poetic feast; a strict attention to business enabled us
to keep the wolf from the door, and a very cheerful party finally emerged
from the big tent to stroll by the fountains that flashed under the
chenars.
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