forward, and named the
rose, in a borrowed couplet. He was dismissed with a graceful wave of
the hand by the princess, and broke his mandolin in his vexation, as he
quitted the hall of audience. And thus did they continue, one after
another, to name flower after flower, and quit the hall of audience in
despair. Then might these beautiful youths, as they all stood before the
princess, be compared, themselves, to the most beauteous flowers, strong
rooted in their hopes, and basking in the sun of her presence; and, as
their hopes were cut off, what were they but the same flowers severed
from their stalks, and drooping before the sunny beams, now too powerful
to be borne, or loaded with the dew of tears, removed to fade away
unheeded? There were but few left, when Mezrimbi, who had, as he
thought, hit upon the right name, and who, watching the countenance of
Acota, which had an air of impatient indifference upon it, which induced
Mezrimbi to suppose that he had lighted upon the same idea, and might
forestall him, stepped forward with his mandolin. Mezrimbi was
considered one of the best poets in Souffra; in fact, he had every
talent, but not one virtue. He bent forward in an elegant attitude, and
sang as follows:--

"Who does the nightingale love? Alas! we
Know. She sings of her love in the silence of
Night, and never tells the name of her adored one.

"What are flowers but the language of love?
And does not the nightingale rest her breast
Upon the thorn as she pours out her plaintive notes?

"Take then out of thy bosom the sweet flower of May
Which is hidden there, emblematical of thy love,
And the pleasing pain that it has occasioned."

When Mezrimbi had finished the two first verses, the beauteous princess
started with fear that he had gained her secret, and it was with a
feeling of agony that she listened to the last; agony succeeded by a
flow of joy, at his not having been successful. Impatiently she waved
her hand, and as impatiently did Mezrimbi depart from her presence.

Acota then stepped forward, and after a prelude, the beauty of which
astonished all those around the queen's person, for they had no idea
that he could play in tune, sang in a clear melodious voice the
following stanzas:--

"Sweet, blushing cheek! the rose is there,
Thy breath, the fragrance of its bowers;
Lilies are on thy bosom fair,
And e'en thy very words seem flowers.

"But lily, rose, or flower, that blow