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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,
And she waves from her bower her kerchief of 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 reposes;

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
The dazzling display of its sapphire and gold;
But the blaze, which encircles them, scarcely can vie
With the languishing glance of that dark-rolling eye.

And that form shall recline in her roseate bowers,
And catch in her bosom the violet showers;
And that bosom the Zephyr shall court with a kiss,
As he wafts his perfume to her garden of bliss.

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METHOUGHT that I roam'd in the fields of the blest,
A spirit of air in the regions above;

Yet methought that I fled from that heavenly rest,
To smile on the spot and the friend of my love.

And I rov'd o'er each valley, and smil'd 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

more, .

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


While methought that I drank each long sigh which he


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,

And there may the rose with the cypress entwine; For the breasts which I deem'd were unmov'd at my


In silence and sorrow are musing on thine.

And be there no marble to mark out that spot,

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No line which can speak of thy life, or thy end; When thy virtues by all are unknown or forgot, They still shall survive in the breast of thy friend.

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