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THE MOOR'S SERENADE.

LIST, list, my Zuleima;

One word to me speak,

As I strike the sweet chords

Of the dulcet caique.

The prowling narghileh

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Has gone to his lair,

While the songs of the yashmak

Float soft on the air.

Oh, speak to thine Azim!

All nature is still,

Save the notes of the sheik,

And the yataghan's trill;

The scent of the efreet

Floats soft on the breeze

As it sighs through the leaves

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