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Her cheek grew pale with frequent tears, that wore
The rose away. Oh! burning are the drops
That wounded love will shed—like to the dew
Falling from off the poison tree, the blight
Still following the touch;—ah! other tears
Soften and bless—but these destroy the heart.
She was alone, a stranger in the land;
All her hopes dwelt upon him; she was as
A sunborn flower of her native plains,
Borne to far northern climes; it languishes
When its bright lover, the all-glorious sun,
That erst looked smiling on its beauty, turns
A cold and clouded glance—its drooping head
Sickens and pines. Thus fared it with Zoraide—
Passing as flits a morning dream away.
XVIII.
What was his life thenceforth?—a fiery page,
