How beauteous is the star of night Within the eastern skies, Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkman's glance, Or the antelope's azure eyes! A lamp of love in the heaven above, That star is fondly streaming; And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque In the Golden Horn are gleaming. Young Leila sits in her jasmine bower, As it thrills its throat to the first full note, She gazes still, as a maiden will, On that beauteous eastern star: You might see the throb of her bosom's sob Beneath the white cymar! She thinks of him, who is far away,— Her own brave Galiongee, Where the billows foam and the breezes roam, On the wild Carpathian sea. She thinks of the oath, that bound them both Beside the stormy water; And the words of love, that in Athens' grove He spake to the Cadi's daughter. My Selim!" thus the maiden said, "Though severed thus we be, By the raging deep and the mountain's steep, My soul still yearns to thee. Thy form so dear is mirrored here In my heart's pellucid well, As the rose looks up to Phingari's orb, Or the moth to the gay gazelle ! www. "I think of the time, when the Kaftan's crime And thy name still floats in the plaintive notes Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed, Thy soul it is heavy laden; Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila's bower, A light step trod on the dewy sod, And an arm embraced young Leila's waist- Like the phantom form that rules the storm, Appeared the pirate lover, And his fiery eye was like Zatanai, "Speak, Leila, speak! for my light caïque I have come from my rest to her I love best, To carry thee, love, away. The breast of thy lover shall shield thee and cover Think'st thou I fear the dark vizier, Or the mufti's vengeful arm? "Then droop not, love, nor turn away Stole through the acacia blossoms, And the thrust he made with his gleaming blade Hath pierced through both their bosoms. "There! there! thou cursed caitiff Giaour! And he smiles to see them die. And the maidens wail to hear the tale THE minarets wave on the plains of Stamboul, The voice of the musnud is heard from the west, And kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest. The notes of the kislar re-echo no more, And the waves of Al Sirat fall light on the shore. Where art thou, my beauty: where art thou, my bride? Oh, come and repose by thy dragoman's side! |