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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. 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.
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 lovliest 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.
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; 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.
5 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.