ight--
And she bounds beneath the eastern skies,
And the beauty of eastern night.

Why so fast flies the bark through the ocean's foam,
Why wings it so speedy a flight?
'Tis an Araby maid who hath left her home,
To fly with her Christian knight.

She hath left her sire and her native land,
The land which from childhood she trode,
And hath sworn, by the pledge of her beautiful hand,
To worship the Christian's God.

Then away, away, oh swift be thy flight,
It were death one moment's delay;
For behind there is many a blade glancing bright--
Then away--away--away!

They are safe in the land where love is divine,
In the land of the free and the brave--
They have knelt at the foot of the holy shrine,
Nought can sever them now but the grave.

THE MAIDEN'S VOW.

The maid is at the altar kneeling,
Hark the chant is loudly pealing--
Now it dies away!

Her prayers are said at the holy shrine,
No other thought but thought divine
Doth her sad bosom fill.

The world to her is nothing now,
For she hath ta'en a solemn vow
To do her father's will.

But why hath one so fair, so young,
The joys of life thus from her flung--
Why hath she ta'en the veil?

Her lover fell where the brave should fall,
Amidst the fight, when the trumpet's call
Proclaim'd the victory.

He fought, he fell, a hero brave--
And though he fill a lowly grave,
His name can never die.

The victory's news to the maiden came--
They loudly breathed her lover's name,
Who for his country fell.

But vain the loudest trumpet tone
Of fame to her, when he was gone
To whom the praise was given!

Her sun of life had set in gloom--
Its joys were withered in his tomb--
She vow'd herself to Heaven.

I LOVE THE SEA.

I love the sea, I love the sea,
My childhood's home, my manhood's rest,
My cradle in my infancy--
The only bosom I have press'd.
I cannot breathe upon the land,
Its manners are as bonds to me,
Till on the deck again I stand,
I cannot feel that I am free.

Then tell me not of stormy graves--
Though winds be high, there let them roar;
I 'd rather perish on the waves
Than pine by inches on the shore.
I ask no willow where I lie,
My mourne