MAID of sorrow, tell us why
  Sad and drooping hangs thy head?
Is it grief that bids thee sigh?
  Is it sleep that flies thy bed?

AH! I mourn no fancied wound;
  Pangs too true this heart have wrung,
Since the snakes which curl around
  Selim's brows my bosom stung.

Destined now to keener woes,
  I must see the youth depart;
He must go, and, as he goes,
  Rend at once my bursting heart.

Slumber may desert my bed;
  ’Tis not slumber's charms I seek:
’Tis the robe of beauty spread
  O’er my Selim's rosy cheek.