Oh! could he listen to such sounds unmov’d, And by that light—nor dream of her he lov’d? Dream on, unconscious boy! while yet thou may’st; ’Tis the last bliss thy soul shall ever taste. Clasp yet awhile her image to thy heart, Ere all the light, that made it dear, depart. Think of her smiles as when thou saw’st them last, Clear, beautiful, by nought of earth o’ercast; Recall her tears, to thee at parting given, Pure as they weep, _if_ angels weep, in Heaven. Think, in her own still bower she waits thee now, With the same glow of heart and bloom of brow, Yet shrin’d in solitude—thine all, thine only, Like the one star above thee, bright and lonely. Oh! that a dream so sweet, so long enjoy’d, Should be so sadly, cruelly destroy’d! The song is hush’d, the laughing nymphs are flown, And he is left, musing of bliss, alone;— Alone?—no, not alone—that heavy sigh, That sob of grief, which broke from some one nigh— Whose could it be?—alas! is misery found Here, even here, on this enchanted ground? He turns, and sees a female form, close veil’d, Leaning, as if both heart and strength had fail’d, Against a pillar near;—not glittering o’er With gems and wreaths, such as the others wore, But in that deep-blue, melancholy dress,[93] BOKHARA’S maidens wear in mindfulness Of friends or kindred, dead or far away;— And such as ZELICA had on that day He left her—when, with heart too full to speak, He took away her last warm tears upon his cheek. A strange emotion stirs within him,—more Than mere compassion ever wak’d before; Unconsciously he opes his arms, while she Springs forward, as with life’s last energy, But, swooning in that one convulsive bound, Sinks, ere she reach his arms, upon the ground;— Her veil falls off—her faint hands clasp his knees— ’Tis she herself!—’tis ZELICA he sees! But, ah, so pale, so chang’d—none but a lover Could in that wreck of beauty’s shrine discover The once ador’d divinity—even he Stood for some moments mute, and doubtingly Put back the ringlets from her brow, and gaz’d Upon those lids, where once such lustre blaz’d, Ere he could think she was _indeed_ his own, Own darling maid, whom he so long had known In joy and sorrow, beautiful in both; Who, even when grief was heaviest—when loth He left her for the wars—in that worst hour Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower,[94] When darkness brings its weeping glories out, And spreads its sighs like frankincense about.