That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind,
One name is deeply, secretly enshrined.
That name in vain stern Reason would efface,
Hamet! 'tis thine, thou foe to all her race?
And yet not hers in bitterness to prove
The sleepless pangs of unrequited love;
Pangs, which the rose of wasted youth consume,
And make the heart of all delight the tomb,
Check the free spirit in its eagle-flight,
And the spring-morn of early genius blight;
Not such her grief—though now she wakes to weep,
While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep.7[1]
A step treads lightly through the citron-shade,
Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betray d—
Doth her young hero seek that well-known spot,
Scene of past hours that ne'er may be forgot?
'Tis he—but changed that eye, whose glance of fire
Could, like a sunbeam, hope and joy inspire,
As, luminous with youth, with ardor fraught,
It spoke of glory to the inmost thought;
Thence the bright spirit's eloquence hath fled,
And in its wild expression may be read
