Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrill'd,
But sterner duties call'd—and were fulfill'd:
And I am blest!—To every holier tie
My life was faithful,—and for thee I die!
Nor shall the love so purified be vain;
Sever'd on earth, we yet shall meet again.
Farewell!—And ye, at Zayda's dying prayer,
Spare him, my kindred tribe! forgive and spare!
Oh! be his guilt forgotten in his woes,
While I, beside my sire, in peace repose."
Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and death
Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath.
One pang—'tis past—her task on earth is done,
And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown.
But he for whom she died—Oh! who may paint
The grief, to which all other woes were faint?
There is no power in language to impart
The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart,
By the dread Searcher of the soul survey'd;
These have no words—nor are by words portray'd.
A dirge is rising on the mountain-air,
Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear
