“Now is the conflict past, and I have proved How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved! Yes! in an hour like this ’twere vain to hide The heart so long and so severely tried: Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrill’d, But sterner duties call’d--and were fulfill’d. And I am blest!--To every holier tie My life was faithful,--and for thee I die! Nor shall the love so purified be vain; Sever’d on earth, we yet shall meet again. Farewell!--And ye, at Zayda’s dying prayer, Spare him, my kindred tribe! forgive and spare! Oh! be his guilt forgotten in his woes, While I, beside my sire, in peace repose.” Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and death Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath. One pang--’tis past--her task on earth is done, And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown. But he for whom she died--oh! who may paint The grief to which all other woes were faint? There is no power in language to impart The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart, By the dread Searcher of the soul survey’d: These have no words--nor are by words portray’d. A dirge is rising on the mountain-air, Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear Far o’er the Alpuxarras;--wild its tone, And rocks and caverns echo, “Thou art gone!” “Daughter of heroes! thou art gone To share his tomb who gave thee birth: Peace to the lovely spirit flown! It was not form’d for earth. Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race, Which brightly pass’d and left no trace. “But calmly sleep!--for thou art free, And hands unchain’d thy tomb shall raise. Sleep! they are closed at length for thee, Life’s few and evil days! Nor shalt thou watch, with tearful eye, The lingering death of liberty. “Flower of the desert! thou thy bloom Didst early to the storm resign: We bear it still--and dark _their_ doom Who cannot weep for thine! For us, whose every hope is fled, The time is past to mourn the dead. “The days have been, when o’er thy bier Far other strains than these had flow’d; Now, as a home from grief and fear, We hail thy dark abode! We, who but linger to bequeath Our sons the choice of chains or death. “Thou art with those, the free, the brave, The mighty of departed years; And for the slumberers of the grave Our fate hath left no tears. Though loved and lost, to weep were vain For thee, who ne’er shalt weep again. “Have we not seen despoil’d by foes The land our fathers won of yore? And is there yet a pang for those Who gaze on _this_ no more? Oh, that like them ’twere ours to rest! Daughter of heroes! thou art blest!”