Araby’s Daughter

Araby’s Daughter
2122

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