Fly to the Desert. Fly to the desert, fly with me, But oh! the choice what heart can doubt 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 Oh! there are looks and tones that dart As if the very lips and eyes 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 Come, if the love thou hast for me But if for me thou dost forsake Then, fare thee well-I'd rather make 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, 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, Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway And they come. like genii, hovering round. And mine is the gentle song that bears, With the blissful tone that's still in the ear; To a note more heavenly still that is near! The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me, As his own white plume, that high amid death And oh! how the eyes of Beauty glisten, When Music has reach'd her inward soul, From my fairy home, And if there's a magic in Music's strain, Of that moonlight wreath, Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again. Farewell. Farewell-farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! 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, The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses Will think of thy fate, till, neglecting her tresses, |