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Thou! who thy country's children hast pursued To their last refuge midst these mountains rude. Was it for this I loved thee?—Thou hast taught My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought! 'Twill soon be past—I bow to Heaven's decree, Which bade each pang be minister'd by thee."

"I had not deem'd that aught remain'd below For me to prove of yet untasted woe; But thus to meet thee, Zayda! can impart One more, one keener agony of heart. Oh, hear me yet!—I would have died to save My foe, but still thy father, from the grave; But in the fierce confusion of the strife, In my own stern despair, and scorn of life, Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught, Save that to perish there in vain I sought. And let me share thy sorrows—hadst thou known All I have felt in silence and alone, E'en thou might'st then relent, and deem at last A grief like mine might expiate all the past.

But oh! for thee, the loved and precious flower, So fondly rear'd in luxury's guarded bower,