Fly to the Desert.

Fly to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;

But oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love or thrones without?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there Th' acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet, nor lov'd the less For flowering in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope

As gracefully and gaily springs

As o'er the marble courts of kings.

Then come-thy Arab maid will be
The lov'd and lone acacia tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.

Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,
As if the soul that minute caught
Some pleasure it through life had sought;

As if the very lips and eyes
Predestin'd to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,

Sparkled and spoke before us then!

So came thy every glance and tone,

When first on me they breathed and shone ; New as if brought from other spheres,

Yet welcome as if lov'd for years!

Then fly with me-if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away that thou hast sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.

Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found.96

But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruined place ;-

Then, fare thee well-I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake,
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love as false as thine!

From Chindara's warbling.

From Chindara's warbling fount I come,97 Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell; From Chindara's fount, my fairy home,

Where, in music, morn and night I dwell; Where lutes in the air are heard about, And voices are singing the whole day long, And every sigh the heart breathes out Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song! Hither I come,

From my fairy home,

And if there's a magic in music's strain,
I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath,

Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again, For mine is the lay that lightly floats, And mine are the murmuring, dying notes, That fall as soft as the snow on the sea, And melt in the heart as instantly!

And the passionate strain that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through,
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,
Ruffles the wave but sweetens it too!

Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway
The spirits of past delight obey ;-
Let but the tuneful talisman sound,

And they come. like genii, hovering round.

And mine is the gentle song that bears,
From soul to soul the wishes of love,
As a bird, that wafts through genial airs
The cinnamon seed from grove to grove.98
"Tis 1 that mingle in one sweet measure,
The past, the present, and future of pleasure;
When memory links the tone that is gone

With the blissful tone that's still in the ear;
And hope from a heavenly note flies on

To a note more heavenly still that is near!

The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me,
Can as downy soft and as yielding be

As his own white plume, that high amid death
Thro' the field has shown-yet moves with a breath:

And oh! how the eyes of Beauty glisten,

When Music has reach'd her inward soul,
Like the silent stars, that wink and listen
While heav'n's eternal melodies roll!
So, hither I come

From my fairy home,

And if there's a magic in Music's strain,
I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath,

Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

Farewell.

Farewell-farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea)
No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water,
More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.

Oh! fair as the sea-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,99

And hush'd all its music and wither'd 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 nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb.100

And still, when the merry date season is burning, And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, 101

The happiest there, from their pastime returning,
At sunset will weep when thy story is told.

The young village maid, 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.