Pour forth their notes of melody:

Long does he hearken to the strain,

Then sinks fatigued in sleep again.

Luxurious East! how soft thy nights,

What magic through the soul they pour!

How fruitful they of fond delights

To those who Mahomet adore!

What splendour in each house is found,

Each garden seems enchanted ground;

Within the harem's precincts quiet

Beneath fair Luna's placid ray,

When angry feelings cease to riot

There love inspires with softer sway!

The women sleep;--but one is there

Who sleeps not; goaded by despair

Her couch she quits with dread intent,

On awful errand is she bent;

Breathless she through the door swift flying

Passes unseen; her timid feet

Scarce touch the floor, she glides so fleet.

In doubtful slumber restless lying

The eunuch thwarts the fair one's path,

Ah! who can speak his bosom's wrath?

False is the quiet sleep would throw

Around that gray and care-worn brow;

She like a spirit vanished by

Viewless, unheard as her own sigh!

The door she reaches, trembling opes,

Enters, and looks around with awe,

What sorrows, anguish, terrors, hopes,

Rushed through her heart at what she saw!

The image of the sacred maid,

The Christian's matron, reigning there,

And cross attracted first the fair,