That sound, whose cadence dies upon his ear, He follows, reckless if his bands are near. On by the rushing stream his way he bends, And through the mountain’s forest zone ascends; Piercing the still and solitary shades Of ancient pine, and dark luxuriant glades, Eternal twilight’s reign:--those mazes past, The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last, And the lone wanderer now hath reach’d the source Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course. But there he pauses--for the lonely scene Towers in such dread magnificence of mien, And, mingled oft with some wild eagle’s cry, From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky, So deep the solemn and majestic sound Of forests, and of waters murmuring round-- That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets Its fleeting struggles and its vain regrets. --What earthly feeling unabash’d can dwell In nature’s mighty presence?--midst the swell Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods, And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods? These their own grandeur on the soul impress, And bid each passion feel its nothingness. Midst the vast marble cliffs, a lofty cave Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave; Shadow’d by giant oaks, and rude and lone, It seems the temple of some power unknown, Where earthly being may not dare intrude To pierce the secrets of the solitude. Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale. Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet! at the tone? Came it not o’er thee as a spirit’s moan? As some loved sound that long from earth had fled, The unforgotten accents of the dead! E’en thus it rose--and springing from his trance His eager footsteps to the sound advance. He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor; Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o’er He rushes on--and lo! where Zayda rends Her locks, as o’er her slaughter’d sire she bends, Lost in despair;--yet, as a step draws nigh, Disturbing sorrow’s lonely sanctity, She lifts her head, and, all-subdued by grief, Views with a wild sad smile the once-loved chief; While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past, And every woe forgetting--but the last. “Com’st thou to weep with me?--for I am left Alone on earth, of every tie bereft. Low lies the warrior on his blood-stain’d bier; His child may call, but he no more shall hear. He sleeps--but never shall those eyes unclose; ’Twas not my voice that lull’d him to repose; Nor can it break his slumbers.--Dost thou mourn? And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn? Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know, That o’er his grave my tears with Hamet’s flow?”