Princess Of The Morning. From The Play Of "The Prince Of India."

Princess of the Morning Light,
Lean sparkling from thy throne of mist,
The valley roses wait thee to be kissed.
The jasmine stills its chime of bells.
The palm-tree droops its wide-plumed head,
And the mountain, thro its crags and fells,
Thrills longing for thy downward tread,
Princess of the Morning.
Princess of the Morning Light,
Joy wakens to thy breeze-blown hair,
Thy fresh-drawn breath gives rapture to the air,
The heaving of thy bosom fills
The bird- folk with a silver song,
And to thy voice the rivers and the rills
Leap into laughter sweet and long,
Princess of the Morning.
Princess of the Morning Light,
How may I woo thee to be mine,
And ever drink thy golden rays like wine,
And keep thee mistress of my soul.
Yea, I would slay the Emperor of Night,
And storm his castle where the thunders roll,
To win thee for my heart's delight,
Princess of the Morning.