Araby’s Daughter

Araby’s Daughter.
212.2

Farewell, farewell, to thee, Araby’s daughter:
Thus warbled a perl beneath the dark sen;
No pearl ever lay under Oman’s green water
More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.
O. fair na the sen flower close to thee growing.
How light was thy heart till love’s witchery / came.
Like the wind of the South o’er a summer lute blowing
And hushed all its music and withered its frame.

But long upon Araby’s green sunny highlands
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom
Of her who lies sleeping among the pearl islands.
With naught but the sea star to light up her tomb:
And still, when the merry date season is burning.
And calls to the palm grover the young and the old.
The happlest there, from their pastimes return- Ing.
At sunset shall weop when thy story in told.

The young village mald, when with flowers she dresses
Her dark flowing hair for some festival day.
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses.
She mournfully turns from the mirror away.
And still when the merry date season is burning.
And calls to the palm groves the young and the old,
The happiest there from their pastimes returning
At auziset shall weep when thy story is told.

The young village mald, when with flowers sha dresses
Her dark flowing hair for some festival day.
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,
She mournfully turns from the mirror away.
Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero, forget thee,
Tho’ tyrants may watch o’er her tears as they start,
Close, close, by the alde of that hero she’ll set thee.
Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell, be it ours to embellish thy pillow
With everything beauteous that grows in the deep:
Each flower of the rock and each gem of the bil- low
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.
Around thee shall glisten the lovellest amber
That ever the Borrowing sea bird hath wept
With many a shell, in whose hollow wreathed chamber
We peris of ocean by moonlight have slept.

We’ll dine where the gardens of coral lle darkling.
And plant all all t the rostest steme at thy head;
We’ll seek where the sanda of the Caspian lie sparkling.
And guther their gold to strew over thy bed- Farewell, farewell, until pity’s sweet fountain
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,
They’ll weep for the chieftain who died on that mountain.
They’ll weep for the malden who sleeps in this wave.