Before I die thy humid pinions sweep
Above me once, but O to stain forbear
The heart which still immaculate I keep!
But thou com'st not, and now, with rosy hair
From Ganges hastening, to all things again
Their native hue restores Day's harbinger.
Perhaps thou'st come, and ah, my cruel pain
And wakeful thoughts thee ingress have denied
Into my eyes, or hurl'd thee out amain.
Since, blundering archer, thou dost shoot aside,
Or snapp'st thy every dart my breast upon,
To me thy wand be never more applied!
Away, away! grim Death can blunt alone
My miseries' point, and ne'er till life be spent
I shall the hour of dear repose have won.
O how the strife within is vehement!
Now reason wins, now madness holds the sway;
So much my ill can do, nor I prevent.
O may this soul of mine from out its clay
Fly to repose elsewhere! I'm sure to see
My last hour once; and though far, far away
The feign'd death keep, the true shall visit me.
THE MOORMEN'S MARCH FROM GRANADA.
An Ancient Ballad.
From the Spanish,
"Reduan, I but lately heard
From thy mouth the sounding word,
That for me the town of Jaen
In one night thou wouldst obtain;
Reduan, if thou do the same,
Double pay thou mayest claim;
Save thy word perform'd I see,
From Granada thou shalt flee,
Banish'd to a far frontier,
Where thy lady shall not cheer.
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