Month after month, in widowhood of soul Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll Their suns away—but ah! how cold and dim Even summer suns, when not beheld with him! From time to time ill-omen’d rumours came, Like spirit-tongues mutt’ring the sick man’s name, Just ere he dies:—at length those sounds of dread Fell with’ring on her soul, “AZIM is dead!” Oh Grief, beyond all other griefs, when fate First leaves the young heart lone and desolate In the wide world, without that only tie For which it lov’d to live or fear’d to die;— Lorn as the hung-up lute, that ne’er hath spoken Since the sad day its master-chord was broken! Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was such, Even reason sunk,—blighted beneath its touch: And though, ere long, her sanguine spirit rose Above the first dead pressure of its woes, Though health and bloom return’d, the delicate chain Of thought, once tangled, never clear’d again. Warm, lively, soft as in youth’s happiest day, The mind was still all there, but turned astray;— A wand’ring bark, upon whose pathway shone All stars of heaven, except the guiding one! Again she smil’d, nay, much and brightly smil’d, But ’twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild; And when she sung to her lute’s touching strain, ’Twas like the notes, half ecstasy, half pain, The bulbul[47] utters, ere her soul depart, When, vanquish’d by some minstrel’s powerful art, She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke her heart! Such was the mood in which that mission found Young ZELICA,—that mission, which around The Eastern world, in every region blest With woman’s smile, sought out its loveliest, To grace that galaxy of lips and eyes Which the Veil’d Prophet destined for the skies:— And such quick welcome as a spark receives Dropp’d on a bed of Autumn’s withered leaves, Did every tale of these enthusiasts find In the wild maiden’s sorrow-blighted mind. All fire at once the madd’ning zeal she caught;— Elect of Paradise! blest, rapturous thought! Predestin’d bride, in heaven’s eternal dome, Of some brave youth—ha! durst they say “of _some_?” No—of the one, one only object trac’d In her heart’s core too deep to be effac’d; The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twin’d With every broken link of her lost mind; Whose image lives, though Reason’s self be wreck’d, Safe ’mid the ruins of her intellect!