DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.11448#0319
CHAP. II.]
SYRIAN SCENERY.
13
CHAPTER II.
syrian scenery.
Now upon Syria's land of roses
Softly the light of eve reposes,
And, liko a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted Lebanon ;
Whose top in wintry grandeur towers,
And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flowers,
Lies sleeping rosy at his feet.
Moore.
After a few days' residence with Bianchi, I removed to a cot-
tage nearer to the sea, and farther from the town. It belonged
to a Maltese, who had been formerly a waiter at the Travellers'
Club, in London, and who now supplied my simple menage with
as much neatness and elegance as if my dining-room looked out
upon Pall Mall. Far different, however, was the view: that
which I now beheld is perhaps the finest in the world.
Come out to the terrace whereon a tent is pitched, and rest upon
soft carpets in its shade; while Trimseni lights your chibouque,
and Raswan offers you a cup of Mocha coffee perfumed with am-
bergris. From the rich gardens all round us rise numbers of
flat-roofed cottages; and, as the sun is low, their gaily-dressed
inhabitants come forth to breathe the cool breezes, and enjoy their
pipes and coffee. There is a joyous, and almost a festive, look, in
all around us; the acacia blossoms are dancing in the breeze, the
palms are waving salutations, and the flowers are flirting with
one another in blushes and perfumed whisperings: the faint plash
of the wave is echoed from the rocks; the hum of the distant
city is broken by the rattle of the drum, and pierced by the fife
with its wild Turkish music ; flocks of pigeons rustle through the
SYRIAN SCENERY.
13
CHAPTER II.
syrian scenery.
Now upon Syria's land of roses
Softly the light of eve reposes,
And, liko a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted Lebanon ;
Whose top in wintry grandeur towers,
And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flowers,
Lies sleeping rosy at his feet.
Moore.
After a few days' residence with Bianchi, I removed to a cot-
tage nearer to the sea, and farther from the town. It belonged
to a Maltese, who had been formerly a waiter at the Travellers'
Club, in London, and who now supplied my simple menage with
as much neatness and elegance as if my dining-room looked out
upon Pall Mall. Far different, however, was the view: that
which I now beheld is perhaps the finest in the world.
Come out to the terrace whereon a tent is pitched, and rest upon
soft carpets in its shade; while Trimseni lights your chibouque,
and Raswan offers you a cup of Mocha coffee perfumed with am-
bergris. From the rich gardens all round us rise numbers of
flat-roofed cottages; and, as the sun is low, their gaily-dressed
inhabitants come forth to breathe the cool breezes, and enjoy their
pipes and coffee. There is a joyous, and almost a festive, look, in
all around us; the acacia blossoms are dancing in the breeze, the
palms are waving salutations, and the flowers are flirting with
one another in blushes and perfumed whisperings: the faint plash
of the wave is echoed from the rocks; the hum of the distant
city is broken by the rattle of the drum, and pierced by the fife
with its wild Turkish music ; flocks of pigeons rustle through the