The glow hath vanish’d from his cheek--his eye Hath lost that beam of parting energy; Frozen and fix’d it seems--his brow is chill; One struggle more--that noble heart is still. Departed warrior! were thy mortal throes, Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose, More keen, more bitter, than th’ envenom’d dart Thy dying words have left in Hamet’s heart? _Thy_ pangs were transient; _his_ shall sleep no more, Till life’s delirious dream itself be o’er; But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave Be the pure altar of the patriot brave. Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought In the high spirit and unbending thought! Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide, Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride; While his soul rises, gathering all its force, To meet the fearful conflict with remorse. To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been His own, unchanged, through many a stormy scene; Zayda! to thee his heart for refuge flies; Thou still art faithful to affection’s ties. Yes! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn, Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem; And soon thy smile and soft consoling voice Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice. Within Granada’s walls are hearts and hands Whose aid in secret Hamet yet commands; Nor hard the task, at some propitious hour, To win his silent way to Zayda’s bower, When night and peace are brooding o’er the world, When mute the clarions, and the banners furl’d. That hour is come--and, o’er the arms he bears, A wandering fakir’s garb the chieftain wears: Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide The lofty port, and glance of martial pride; But night befriends--through paths obscure he pass’d, And hail’d the lone and lovely scene at last; Young Zayda’s chosen haunt, the fair alcove, The sparkling fountain, and the orange grove: Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat, As form’d alone for happy hearts to meet. For happy hearts!--not such as hers, who there Bends o’er her lute with dark unbraided hair; That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien, Tell that despair her bosom’s guest hath been. So lost in thought she seems, the warrior’s feet Unheard approach her solitary seat, Till his known accents every sense restore-- “My own loved Zayda! do we meet once more?” She starts, she turns--the lightning of surprise, Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes; But that is fleeting--it is past--and how Far other meaning darkens o’er her brow: Changed is her aspect, and her tone severe-- “Hence, Aben-Zurrah! death surrounds thee here!” “Zayda! what means that glance, unlike thine own? What mean those words, and that unwonted tone? I will not deem thee changed--but in thy face, It is not joy, it is not love, I trace!