From the Arabic

    Of thy looks my love；

    It panted for thee like the hind at noon

    For the brooks my love.

    Thy barb whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight

    Bore thee far from me；

    My heart for my weak feet were weary soon

    Did companion thee.

    Ah！ fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed

    Or the death they bear

    The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove

    With the wings of care；

    In the battle in the darkness in the need

    Shall mine cling to thee

    Nor claim one smile for all the comfort love

    It may bring to thee.