O, fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,
  How light was thy heart till love’s witchery came,
Like the wind of the south o’er a summer lute blowing,
  And hushed all its music and withered its frame!

But long, upon Araby’s green sunny highlands,
  Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom
Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands,
  With naught but the sea-star to light up her tomb.

And still, when the merry date-season is burning,
  And calls to the palm-grove the young and the old,
The happiest there, from their pastime returning
  At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.

The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses
  Her dark flowing-hair for some festival day,
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,
  She mournfully turns from the mirror away.

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero, forget thee—­
  Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start,
Close, close by the side of that hero she’ll set thee,
  Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell!—­be it ours to embellish thy pillow
  With everything beauteous that grows in the deep;
Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow
  Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber
  That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept;
With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed chamber,
  We, Peris of ocean, by moonlight have slept.

We’ll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,
  And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head;
We’ll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,
  And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

Farewell!—­farewell!—­until pity’s sweet fountain
  Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,
They’ll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain. 
  They’ll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in the wave.

THOMAS MOORE.

SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH.

Softly woo away her breath,
  Gentle death! 
Let her leave thee with no strife,
  Tender, mournful, murmuring life! 
She hath seen her happy day,—­
  She hath had her bud and blossom;
Now she pales and shrinks away,
  Earth, into thy gentle bosom!

She hath done her bidding here,
  Angels dear! 
Bear her perfect soul above. 
  Seraph of the skies,—­sweet love! 
Good she was, and fair in youth;
  And her mind was seen to soar. 
And her heart was wed to truth: 
  Take her, then, forevermore,—­
  Forever—­evermore—­

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (Barry Cornwall.)

SHE DIED IN BEAUTY.

She died in beauty,—­like a rose
  Blown from its parent stem;
She died in beauty,—­like a pearl
  Dropped from some diadem.