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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, And hushed all its music, and withered 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 naught but the sea-star to light up her tomb.
And still, when the merry date-season is burning, And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old,
The happiest there, from their pastime returning At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.
The young village-maid, when with flowers she
Her dark-flowing hair for some festival day,
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her
She mournfully turns from the mirror away.
Nor shall Iran, beloved of her Hero! forget thee — Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee, Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.
Farewell — be it ours to embellish thy pillow With everything beauteous that grows in the deep; Each flower of the rock, and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.
Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept;
With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber, We Peris of ocean by moonlight have slept.
We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head;
We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling, And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.
Farewell — farewell — until Pity's sweet fountain
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the chieftain who died on that mountain, They'll weep for the maiden who sleeps in this wave.
The poor but sensitive and cultivated tutor, falling into hopeless love with his fair pupil, has furnished a theme for numberless romances. The true story of the author of " Mary's Dream " affords us a variation from it. Nothing is wanting but a proper denouement, to make this bit of history just like a story-book. We can now imagine the lady true always to the betrothed husband who comes in a dream to comfort her, and a poet friend, with feeling and fancy enough to put the visitation into tender words, who has not usurped the place of the lost lover.
John Lowe was born in Galloway, Scotland, in 1750. His father was a gardener, and after gleaning a little education at the parish school, the sou showed good talent for music, and devoted himself to the art. He was fondest of sacred music, which he taught for his support. He finally succeeded in going through the University of Edinburgh, and soon after became tutor to Miss McGhie, daughter of a Scottish gentleman. While he was in the family, the accepted lover of the young lady, Alexander Miller, was drowned at sea, and on the sorrowful event this song was written. Lowe also composed a beautiful air to it, which has been supplanted.