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THE DYING MUSSULMAN'S SONG.
I see-I see a dark-ey'd maid of Paradise, and she waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of green, and cries aloud-- Come, kiss me! for I love you.— Notes to the Giaour.
Away with those accents of sorrow and wail !
eye should be wet, and no cheek should be pale; For a fair maid of Eden shall bear up my soul, When it bursts from the bonds of its mortal controul.
I see her, as lightly she floats o'er the scene,
green; And her arms, as she points to our nuptial bed, Are more white than the lilies which droop on her head.
And that couch shall be spread in a garden of roses, Where the Zephyr shall sport, and where Pleasure
And there shall a shower of violets hide
The blush as it gleams o'er the cheek of my
Oh! mark, where the rays of the morning unfold
And that form shall recline in her roseate bowers,
And catch in her bosom the violet showers;
METHOUGHT that I roam'd in the fields of the blest,
A spirit of air in the regions above;
To smile on the spot and the friend of my love.
And I rov'd o'er each valley, and smild on each glade, And breath'd with those friends that in childhood
were dear; But they pass'd by the spot where my bones had been
And they heav'd not a sigh, and they shed not a tear.
And if one sad feeling of sorrow arose,
Which told them that friend whom they lov'd was no
Too quickly that thought in forgetfulness froze,
And each breast was as light and as gay as before.
But yet there was one, who, alone and unseen,
Had sought with that stillness his sorrows to blend; To muse on the days and the joys which had been, !
And to weep o'er the tomb and the faults of his friend.
And he sat on my grave, and sweet garlands he wreath’d, And the lips which had blest me stirr'd meekly with
pray’r; While methought that I drank each long sigh which he
breath'd, And wafted those words to the regions of air.
But how wondrous is fate, and how stern its decree!
That friend whom I cherish'd hath bow'd to the storm; And, Henry, the task which I deem'd was for thee,
Has been left for affection and me to perform.
Then light be the turf that encircles thy tomb,
entwine; For the breasts which I deem'd were unmov'd at my
doom, In silence and sorrow are musing on thine.