THE BROKEN SPELL.
33
Mirzala was pale, yet still
Shrank she not for dread of ill.
She cross'd the sea, and she gain'd the shore;
But little it recks to number o'er
The wearying days, and the heavy fears,
When hope could only smile through tears,
The perils, the pains, through which she pass'd,
Till she came to a castle's gate at last.
'T was evening; but the glorious sky,
With its purple light and Tyrian dye,
Was contrast strange to the drear heath
Which bleak and desolate lay beneath.
Trees, but leafless all, stood there,
For the lightning flash had left them bare;
The grass lay wither'd, as if the wind
Of the Siroc had mark’d its red course; behind
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