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And his right arm was sleeved in cloth Of tawny lion's hue, And at his lance-head, lifted high, A Turkish pennon flew. And when he reached Daraja's camp He saw Daraja stand Beside his own perfidious love, And clasp her by the hand. He made to her the wonted sign, Then lingered for a while, For jealous anguish filled his heart To see her tender smile.
And when he saw the morning rise, While sleep still sealed Daraja's eyes, Amid his tears, to soothe his pain, He sang this melancholy strain: "The morn is up, The heavens alight, My jealous soul Still owns the sway of night. Thro' all the night I wept forlorn, Awaiting anxiously the morn; And tho' no sunlight strikes on me, My bosom burns with jealousy.
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