The Regrets of Bôkhära
N. Page
The gale, whose breath such joy imparts,
Comes from the gentle stream
Where they reside, to whom our hearts
Return in mem'ry's dream:
The precious odour that its wings convey,
Is their regret for us -- so far away!
The sands are rough along that shore
Where glides our native Amû's stream;
But when we tread its banks once more,
Like velvet those rude sands will seem.
Oh, pitying Oxus! let thy waves divide,
And yield us passage down thy op'ning tide!
All hail, Bôkhära, land of flowers!
Our prince moves proudly on;
He goes to glad thy sunny bowers,
He asks thy smile alone.
The waving cypress seeks his native groves,
The rising moon the firmament it loves.