THE CIRCASSIAN.
I
She sits within the harem, the Sultan's chosen slave:
She spurns the chain of jewels that proud Almanzor gave;
The tyrant's haughty passion demands her love in vain,
Her young heart's first affection still holds her with no chain.
II
She sighs for sweet Circassia, and thither fain would go;
She thinks of distant fountains, and almost hears them flow;
But starting from the vision, some form she seems to seek,
She sees her gilded prison, and tears steal o'er her cheeks.
III
Her lute lies there neglected, 'twas broken by her hand,
That lute, at least, shall never obey her lord's command.
Her lip may give him welcome, e'en smiles at last may come,
But she will never sing him one song that breathes of home.
