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THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Thus all too early desolate,
Without one hope or wish from fate;
Save death, what can the maiden crave
Who weeps above her lover's grave?"
Darken'd her eyes with tearful dew,
Wore her soft cheek yet softer hue;
And Mirza who had lean'd the while,
Feeding upon her voice and smile,
Felt as if all that fate could bring
Were written on that moment's wing.
One moment he is at her knee,
"So, Leila, wouldst thou weep for me?"
Started she, as at lightning gleam,—
"Oh, Mirza, this I did not dream.
Moslem and Moor, may Spanish maid
Hearken such words as thou hast said?
