 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Aird |  |
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II.
He raised her up—O terror! O despair!He pressed her heart—no pulse is stirring there.
Borne to a couch, he held that lovely head,
And gazed upon her in his silent dread;
By her unheeded now: No more she sees
Her father and her king—oh, more to her than these!
He started, called his slaves; but vain the aid
Of man, he closed the eyelids of the maid;
Then seized her lifeless hand: low bowing there,
He hid his face among her long black hair;
There lay through night, all silent in his woes;
And rose not up until the morn arose.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Aird | |