THUBARE, A PORT ON THE ARABIAN COAST.
HOU lovely port of Araby,
Of Araby the blest,
I think of the time, when thy summer clime,
Was bright on my midnight rest;
And the gates uprose, which at evening close,
Lest they harbour forbidden guest.
Oh! I must let my thoughts go back,
O’er the charmed spots in memory’s track;
Back like a bark that at random sails,
Or the dreamings of those delicious tales.
Now, was not that a beautiful dream,
Of the prince who pined for love,
And who sought on his way, so mournfully,
For the arrow he shot above.
On he went through the gloomy wood,
Where the heavy boughs were sweeping,
Dark with a century’s solitude,
Whose watch they had been keeping.
The moss was gray on each aged tree,
And the sound of the branches was that of the sea,
When, girt by the rocks, and stirred by the wind,
It moans like a giant in fetters confined.
Next he came to a gloomy cave,
But, oh! ’twas a cave like night;
For the spars a trembling radiance gave,
Like the stars in the morning light;
And a gentle meteor glided around,
It seemed like a living thing,
So soft was the gleam of its moonlit eyes!
So bright was its shadowy wing.
It moved with a song that was sweet and low,
As the waters when over white pebbles they flow;
Around and before Prince Ahmed it shone,
And it looked a kind welcome, while guiding him on,
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