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All night the music of the Guzla falls
Upon the perfumed air : Its plaintive note love's sweet complainings calls
From dusky bosoms bare.
All night the gipsy, lying in the grass,
Waking, the moon admires : And prays the clouds before the stars that pass
Not to blot out their fires !
All night beneath the low caressing boughs
Of trees the maidens lie,
While round them night-birds fly.
The scent of grass is in their matted locks,
The blossoms bend to kiss Their swarthy brows: the earth her children rocks
To rest and dreamful bliss.
The brooding quiet of the mystic East
Enfolds them in its charm : They cling to Nature, for she spreads their feast
And shelters them from harm.
All night the music of the Guzla tells
Its tale of love and pain : All night in reverie the gipsy dwells
On the Roumanian plain.
THE FAIR BOSNIAN.
BESIDE the turbid stream she stood :
Her limbs were weary, and she leaned
Her face, and sought to hide her tears.
I read her story thus, for we
She knew not what they said, nor raised
I loved her as she slept : I loved