She spake, then sudden disappeared, And left the Princess in dismay, Who scarce knew what or why she feared; Such words of passion till that day She ne'er had heard. Alas! was she To be the ruthless chieftain's prey? Vain was all hope his grasp to flee. Oh! God, that in some dungeon's gloom Remote, forgotten, she had lain, Or that it were her blessed doom To 'scape dishonour, life, and pain! How would Maria with delight This world of wretchedness resign; Vanished of youth her visions bright, Abandoned she to fates malign! Sinless she to the world was given, And so remains, thus pure and fair, Her soul is called again to heaven, And angel joys await it there! * * * * * Days passed away; Maria slept Peaceful, no cares disturbed her, now,-- From earth the orphan maid was swept. But who knew when, or where, or how? If prey to grief or pain she fell, If slain or heaven-struck, who can tell? She sleeps; her loss the chieftain grieves, And his neglected harem leaves, Flies from its tranquil precincts far, And with his Tartars takes the field, Fierce rushes mid the din of war, And brave the foe that does not yield, For mad despair hath nerved his arm, Though in his heart is grief concealed, With passion's hopeless transports warm. His blade he swings aloft in air And wildly brandishes, then low It falls, whilst he with pallid stare Gazes, and tears in torrents flow. His harem by the chief deserted, In foreign lands he warring roved, Long nor in wish nor thought reverted To scene once cherished and beloved. His women to the eunuch's rage Abandoned, pined and sank in age; The fair Grusinian now no more Yielded her soul to passion's power, Her fate was with Maria's blended, On the same night their sorrows ended; Seized by mute guards the hapless fair Into a deep abyss they threw,-- If vast her crime, through love's despair, Her punishment was dreadful too! At length th'exhausted Khan returned, Enough of waste his sword had dealt, The Russian cot no longer burned, Nor Caucasus his fury felt. In token of Maria's loss A marble fountain he upreared In spot recluse;--the Christian's cross Upon the monument appeared, (Surmounting it a crescent bright, Emblem of ignorance and night!) Th'inscription mid the silent waste Not yet has time's rude hand effaced, Still do the gurgling waters pour Their streams dispensing sadness round, As mothers weep for sons no more, In never-ending sorrows drowned. In morn fair maids, (and twilight late,) Roam where this monument appears, And pitying poor Maria's fate Entitle it the FOUNT OF TEARS! * * * * *