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“For thee, young war
thou hast yet Some tasks to learn, some frailties to
forget, Ere the white war-plume o'er thy brow can wave; But, once my own, mine all till in the grave !"
The pomp is at an end, the crowds are gone, Each ear and heart still haunted by the tone Of that deep voice, which thrill'd like Alla's own! The young all dazzled by the plumes and lances, The glittering throne, and haram's half-caught glances; The old deep pondering on the promised reign Of peace and truth; and all the female train Ready to risk their eyes, could they but gaze A moment on that brow's miraculous blaze!
But there was one among the chosen maids Who blush'd behind the gallery's silken shades, One to whose soul the pageant of to-day Has been like death ; you saw her pale dismay, Ye wandering sisterhood, and heard the burst Of exclamation from her lips, when first She saw that youth, too well, too dearly known, Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne.
Ah, Zelica !. there was a time when bliss Shone o'er thy heart from every look of his ; When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air In which he dwelt, was thy soul's fondest prayer ! When round him hung such a perpetual spell, Whate'er he did, none ever did so well. Too happy days ! when, if he touch'd a flower Or gem of thine, 'twas sacred from that hour; When thou didst study him, till every tone And gesture and dear look became thy own, Thy voice like his, the changes of his face In thine reflected with still lovelier grace, Like echo, sending back sweet music, fraught With twice th' aerial sweetness it had brought ! Yet now he comes,
brighter than even he E'er beam'd before, -- but, ah! not bright for thee : No, — dread, unlook'd for, like a visitant From th: other world, he comes as if to haunt Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight, Long lost to all but memory's aching sight; Sad dreams! as when the Spirit of our youth Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth
And innocence once ours, and leads us back,
Once happy pair ! — in proud Bokhara's groves,
Month after month, in widowhood of soul Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll Their suns away,
but, ah ! how cold and dim Even summer suns, when not beheld with him !