The Ladies' Garland

POETRY.

ARABIAN SONG,

Founded on an anecdote related by an Oriental Traveller.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

Away! though still thy sword is red,
With life-blood from my sire;
No drop of thine may now be shed,
To quench my spirit's fire;
Though on my heart 'twould fall more blest,
Than dews upon the desert's breast.

I've sought thee 'midst the haunts of men,
Through the wide city's fanes;
I've sought thee by the lion's den,
O'er pathless, boundless plains;
No step that track'd the burning waste,
But I its lonely course have trac'd.

Thy name has been a baneful spell,
O'er my dark bosom cast;
No thought may dream, no words may tell,
What there unseen, hath pass'd:
This hollow cheek, this faded eye,
Are seals of thee—behold and fly!

Haste thee, and leave my threshold floor,
Inviolate and pure;
Let not thy presence tempt me more:
Man may not thus endure:
Away! I bear the fetter'd arm,
A heart that burns—but must not harm!

Hath not my cup for thee been pour'd,
Beneath the palm tree's shade?
Hath not soft sleep thy frame restor'd,
Within my dwelling laid?

What though unknown—yet who shall rest
Secure, if not the Arab's guest?

Begone! outstrip the fleet gazelle,
The wind in speed subdue,
Fear cannot fly so swift, so well,
As vengeance shall pursue;
And hate, like love, in parting pain
Smiles o'er one hope; we meet again!

To-morrow and th' avenger's hand,
The warrior's dart is free;
E'en now, no spot in all the land,
Save this had shelter'd thee;
Let blood the monarch's hall profane.
The Arab's tent must bear no stain!

Fly! may the desert's fiery blast
Avoid thy sacred way;
And fetter'd, till thy steps be past
Its whirlwinds sleep to-day;
I would not that thy doom should be
Assign'd by Heaven to aught but me.