The Turkish Captive

Oh! were I not a captive,I should love this fair countree;Those fields with maize abounding,This ever-plaintive sea:I'd love those stars unnumbered,If, passing in the shade,Beneath our walls I saw notThe spahi's sparkling blade.

I am no Tartar maidenThat a blackamoor of priceShould tune my lute and hold to meMy glass of sherbet-ice.Far from these haunts of vices,In my dear countree, weWith sweethearts in the evenMay chat and wander free.

But still I love this climate,Where never wintry breezeInvades, with chilly murmur,These open lattices;Where rain is warm in summer,And the insect glossy green,Most like a living emerald,Shines 'mid the leafy screen.

With her chapelles fair Smyrna--A gay princess is she!Still, at her summons, round herUnfading spring ye see.And, as in beauteous vases,Bright groups of flowers repose,So, in her gulfs are lyingHer archipelagoes.

I love these tall red turrets;These standards brave unrolled;And, like an infant's playthings,These houses decked with gold.I love forsooth these reveries,Though sandstorms make me pant,Voluptuously swayingUpon an elephant.

Here in this fairy palace,Full of such melodies,Methinks I hear deep murmursThat in the deserts rise;Soft mingling with the musicThe Genii's voices pour,Amid the air, unceasing,Around us evermore.

I love the burning odorsThis glowing region gives;And, round each gilded lattice,The trembling, wreathing leaves;And, 'neath the bending palm-tree,The gayly gushing spring;And on the snow-white minaret,The stork with snowier wing.

I love on mossy couch to singA Spanish roundelay,And see my sweet companionsAround commingling gay,--A roving band, light-hearted,In frolicsome array,--Who 'neath the screening parasolsDance down the merry day.But more than all enchantingAt night, it is to me,To sit, where winds are sighing,Lone, musing by the sea;And, on its surface gazing,To mark the moon so fair,Her silver fan outspreading,In trembling radiance there.