Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 40 1834.pdf/13



The summer leaves were sighing Around the Zagri Maid, To her low, sad song replying, As it fill'd the olive shade. "Alas! for her that loveth    Her land's, her kindred's foe! Where a Christian Spaniard roveth,     Should a Zagri's spirit go?

"From thy glance, my gentle mother!    I sink with shame oppress'd, And the dark eye of my brother     Is an arrow to my breast." When summer leaves were sighing, Thus sang the Zagri maid, While the crimson day was dying In the whisp'ring olive shade.

"And for all this heart's wealth wasted,    This woe, in secret borne, This flower of young life blasted,     Should I win back aught but scorn? By aught but daily dying     Would my love-truth be repaid?" When summer leaves were sighing, Thus sang the Zagri maid.