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She sang once more: Thou dreamest: on a rock thou art, High o'er the broken wave; Thou fallest with a fearful start But not into thy grave; For, waking in the morning's light, Thou smilest at the vanished night So wilt thou sink, all pale and dumb, Into the fainting gloom; But ere the coming terrors come, Thou wak'st where is the tomb?
For Hesper beams amid the twilight shade, And soon shall Cynthia tremble o'er the tide, Gleam on these cliffs, that bound the ocean's pride, And lonely silence all the air pervade. Then, let thy tender voice at distance swell, And steal along this solitary shore, Sink on the breeze, till dying heard no more Thou wak'st the sudden magic of thy shell.
Thou wak'st the dead ones smile above, With hovering arms of sleepless love. She paused; then sang again: We weep for gladness, weep for grief; The tears they are the same; We sigh for longing, and relief; The sighs have but one name, And mingled in the dying strife, Are moans that are not sad The pangs of death are throbs of life, Its sighs are sometimes glad.
So I recited the following verses: Budour's love hast thou forgotten or art deaf still to her sighs? Wak'st anights, or do thine eyelids close upon thy sleeping eyes? When he heard this, he opened his eyes and said, "Welcome, O Ibn Mensour! Verily, the jest is become earnest." "O my lord," said I, "is there aught thou wouldst have me do for thee?"
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