It was not thus in other days we met: Hath time, hath absence, taught thee to forget? Oh! speak once more--these rising doubts dispel: One smile of tenderness, and all is well!” “Not thus we met in other days!--oh, no! Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country’s foe! Those days are past--we ne’er shall meet again With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as then. But _thy_ dark soul no gentler feelings sway, Leader of hostile bands! away, away! On in thy path of triumph and of power, Nor pause to raise from earth a blighted flower.” “And _thou_, too, changed! thine earthly vow forgot! This, this alone, was wanting to my lot! Exiled and scorn’d, of every tie bereft, Thy love, the desert’s lonely fount, was left; And thou, my soul’s last hope, its lingering beam, Thou! the good angel of each brighter dream, Wert all the barrenness of life possest To wake one soft affection in my breast! That vision ended--fate hath nought in store Of joy or sorrow e’er to touch me more. Go, Zegri maid! to scenes of sunshine fly, From the stem pupil of adversity! And now to hope, to confidence, adieu! If thou art faithless, who shall e’er be true?” “Hamet! oh, wrong me not!--I too could speak Of sorrows--trace them on my faded cheek, In the sunk eye, and in the wasted form, That tell the heart hath nursed a canker-worm! But words were idle--read my sufferings there, Where grief is stamp’d on all that once was fair. “Oh, wert thou still what once I fondly deem’d, All that thy mien express’d, thy spirit seem’d, My love had been devotion!--till in death Thy name had trembled on my latest breath. But not the chief who leads a lawless band To crush the altars of his native land; Th’ apostate son of heroes, whose disgrace Hath stain’d the trophies of a glorious race; Not _him_ I loved--but one whose youthful name Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame. Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonour’s cloud O’er that young name had gather’d as a shroud, I then had mourn’d thee proudly, and my grief In its own loftiness had found relief; A noble sorrow, cherish’d to the last, When every meaner woe had long been past. Yes! let affection weep--no common tear She sheds when bending o’er a hero’s bier. Let nature mourn the dead--a grief like this, To pangs that rend _my_ bosom, had been bliss!”