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ZENOBIA.
Oh wild wind, bring me back a sound;
I listen and in vain;
I might, but for my beating heart,
Have heard his step again.
He flung him on his chestnut steed;
How gallantly he rides!
How well his graceful Arab seems
To know the hand that guides!
Why did he not look back? 'Tis well—
He must not meet my gaze;
I shame me of the anxious heart
That so itself betrays.
Lie there, oh rose! it was his hand
That flung thee careless by;
I would not change a single thing
That may have met his eye.
