“But the night wanes--the hours too swiftly fly, The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh; Yet, loved one! weep not thus--in joy or pain, Oh! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again! Yes, we shall meet! and haply smile at last On all the clouds and conflicts of the past. On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell, Nor deem these mingling tears our last farewell!” Is the voice hush’d, whose loved expressive tone Thrill’d to her heart--and doth she weep alone? Alone she weeps; that hour of parting o’er, When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more? The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair, Showering the dewy rose-leaves o’er her hair; But ne’er for her shall dwell reviving power In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower, To wake once more that calm serene delight, The soul’s young bloom, which passion’s breath could blight-- The smiling stillness of life’s morning hour, Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power. Meanwhile, through groves of deep luxurious shade, In the rich foliage of the South array’d, Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day, Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way. Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave On high o’er many an Aben-Zurrah’s grave. Lonely and fair, its fresh and glittering leaves With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves, To canopy the dead; nor wanting there Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air, Nor wood-bird’s note, nor fall of plaintive stream-- Wild music, soothing to the mourner’s dream. There sleep the chiefs of old--their combats o’er, The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more. Unheard by them th’ awakening clarion blows; The sons of war at length in peace repose. No martial note is in the gale that sighs Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise, Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest bloom-- As, in his native vale, some shepherd’s tomb.