Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/223

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The maiden grew beside the tomb; Perhaps ‘t was that which touch'd her bloom With somewhat of more mournful shade Than seems for youth's first budding made. It was her favourite haunt, she felt As there her all of memory dwelt. Alone, a stranger in the land Which was her home, the only band Between her and her native tongue Was when her native songs she sung.

, thou wert not of our name; Thy Christian creed, thy Spanish race, To us were sorrow, guilt, and shame, No earthly beauty might efface. Yet, lovely Infidel, thou art A treasure clinging to my heart: