Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide
The lofty port, and glance of martial pride;
But night befriends—through paths obscure he pass'd,
And hail'd the lone and lovely scene at last;
Young Zayda's chosen haunt, the fair alcove,
The sparkling fountain, and the orange grove;
Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat,
As form'd alone for happy hearts to meet.
For happy hearts?—not such is hers, who there
Bends o'er her lute, with dark, unbraided hair;
That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien,
Tell that despair her bosom's guest hath been.
So lost in thought she seems, the warrior's feet
Unheard approach her solitary seat,
Till his known accents every sense restore—
"My own loved Zayda! do we meet once more?"
She starts, she turns—the lightning of surprise,
Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes;
But that is fleeting—it is past—and now
Far other meaning darkens o'er her brow;
Changed is her aspect, and her tone severe—
"Hence, Aben-Zurrah! death surrounds thee here!"
