And yet not hers in bitterness to prove The sleepless pangs of unrequited love-- Pangs which the rose of wasted youth consume, And make the heart of all delight the tomb, Check the free spirit in its eagle flight, And the spring-morn of early genius blight: Not such her grief--though now she wakes to weep, While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep.[71] A step treads lightly through the citron-shade, Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betray’d-- Doth her young hero seek that well-known spot, Scene of past hours that ne’er may be forgot? ’Tis he--but changed that eye, whose glance of fire Could like a sunbeam hope and joy inspire, As, luminous with youth, with ardour fraught, It spoke of glory to the inmost thought: Thence the bright spirit’s eloquence hath fled, And in its wild expression may be read Stem thoughts and fierce resolves--now veil’d in shade, And now in characters of fire portray’d. Changed e’en his voice--as thus its mournful tone Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own. “Zayda! my doom is fix’d--another day And the wrong’d exile shall be far away; Far from the scenes where still his heart must be, His home of youth, and, more than all--from thee. Oh! what a cloud hath gather’d o’er my lot Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot! Lovely as then the soft and silent hour, And not a rose hath faded from thy bower; But I--my hopes the tempest hath o’erthrown, And changed my heart, to all but thee alone. Farewell, high thoughts! inspiring hopes of praise! Heroic visions of my early days! In me the glories of my race must end-- The exile hath no country to defend! E’en in life’s morn my dreams of pride are o’er, Youth’s buoyant spirit wakes for me no more, And one wild feeling in my alter’d breast Broods darkly o’er the ruins of the rest. Yet fear not thou--to thee, in good or ill, The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still! But when my steps are distant, and my name Thou hear’st no longer in the song of fame; When Time steals on, in silence to efface Of early love each pure and sacred trace, Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem But as the moonlight pictures of a dream,-- Still shall thy soul be with me, in the truth And all the fervour of affection’s youth? If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play In lonely beauty o’er thy wanderer’s way.”