And still, when the merry date-season is burning,[298] And calls to the palm-groves 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, belov’d 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, Embalm’d in the innermost shrine of her heart. Farewell—be it ours to embellish thy pillow With every thing 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;[299] With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath’d 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[300] 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 this wave. -------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------