Over it the fragrant tamarind
Sheds its early leaves;
And the pelican's white bosom
From it life receives.
Not alone to the far planets,
When the sun is bright,
Does it serve a clear, dark mirror,
For their haunting light:
But a dream of human beauty
Lingers on its tide;
Never yet were stars so lovely
As the eyes beside.
Lovely is the Arab maiden,
Leaning thoughtful there;
While the languid gale of evening
Lifts not her black hair.
Purple is her broidered caftan;
And the golden band
Tells she is a chieftain's daughter
In that eastern land.
Scarcely has she left her childhood,
Yet a deeper trace,
Than our first and careless summers,
Is upon her face.
On that youthful cheek is paleness;
For the heart's repose
Is disturbed by dreams and fancies,
That deny the rose.
Touched with tender melancholy
Is the youth of love,
Haunted by unconscious knowledge
Of its clouds above.
Doth her heart call up one image,
Unavowed how dear?
For acknowledged hope too timid,
Yet too fond for fear?
