ARABIAN SLAVE, THE

ARABIAN SLAVE, THE
Song
Harry Rowe Shelley
Harry Rowe Shelley
G. Schirmer
The harem wife longs for her homeland.

Upon a couch, in royal robes,
Lay the fairest of Arabia’s daughters;
And, as she mused with eyes half closed,
Seemed enthrall’d in sweet enchantment.
But why that sigh, and why that tear,
That steals so gently downward?
Can the captive bird, though in golden cage,
Be content, when tortured by sweet mem’ries?

Where art thou? where art thou? beloved land, where art thou?
In my dreams I see thee,
Again o’er thee I roam;
Far away, far away, in foreign clime for thee I languish,
I long once more to be with thee,
And feel thy sweet hot breath.

It cannot be: To me thou’rt lost!
Since that night when from thee I was taken;
My soul has longed for falcon wings,
With the wind of love to speed them;
That I might fly, far, far away,
Until I reached thy desert life,
Where, with joyous heart, thee would I embrace,
My own beloved, dear Arabia!

Where art thou? Where art thou?
Beloved land, where art thou?
In my dreams I see thee,
Again o’er thee I roam,
Far away, far away, in foreign clime for thee I languish;
Ah! death, sweet death soon come
And loose the chain that binds me,
A captive, a princess, a slave.

ARABIAN SLAVE, THE