He will drink it to her name;
Little of the vial knowing
That has drugg'd its wave,
How its rosy tide is flowing
Onwards to the grave.
One sweet whisper from her came;
And he drank to catch her breath,—
Wine and sigh alike are death!
III.
The Moorish Maiden's Vigil.
Does she watch him, fondly watch him,
Does the maiden watch in vain?
Do her dark eyes strain to catch him
Riding o'er the moonlit plain,
Stately, beautiful, and tall?
Those long eyelashes are gleaming
With the tears she will not shed;
Still her patient hope is dreaming
That it is his courser's tread,
If an olive leaf but fall.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
Scarlet is the turban folded
Round the long black plaits of hair;
And the pliant gold is moulded
Round her arms that are as fair
As the moonlight which they meet.
Little of their former splendour
Lingereth in her large dark eyes;
Ever sorrow maketh tender,
And the heart's deep passion lies
In their look so sad and sweet.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
Once the buds of the pomegranate
Paled beside her cheek's warm dye,
Now 'tis like the last sad planet
Waning in the morning sky—
She has wept away its red.
Can this be the Zegri maiden,
Whom Granada named its flower,
Drooping like a rose rain-laden?—
Heavy must have been the shower,
Bowing down its fragrant head.
