 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
157
FAZRY.
Her hands clasped in anguish—her black eyes bent low,
With motionless grace, as if sculptured in stone,
Half veiled by her dark hair's magnificent flow,
Sweet Fazry is standing—a captive—alone!
With motionless grace, as if sculptured in stone,
Half veiled by her dark hair's magnificent flow,
Sweet Fazry is standing—a captive—alone!
“Kara Aly!”—the statue awakes to that name,
As the marble grew warm 'neath the love-spell of old!
Lo! her pale cheek is kindling with beautiful shame,
And her eye is on fire with emotion untold!
As the marble grew warm 'neath the love-spell of old!
Lo! her pale cheek is kindling with beautiful shame,
And her eye is on fire with emotion untold!
“Frail flower of Kazan! you were nursed from your birth,
Amid luxuries rarest and richest of earth;—
Why left you that home, with the fierce mountain-chief?”
“I loved him!” she murmured, in passionate grief.
Amid luxuries rarest and richest of earth;—
Why left you that home, with the fierce mountain-chief?”
“I loved him!” she murmured, in passionate grief.
“So young and so lovely, a cavern your home!
Ne'er languished that spirit for freedom to roam?
Rude dwelling for creature so fragile and fair!”
She raised her rich eyes—“Kara Aly was there!”
Ne'er languished that spirit for freedom to roam?
Rude dwelling for creature so fragile and fair!”
She raised her rich eyes—“Kara Aly was there!”
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |