 | Young Arthur |  |
Rapt, he listen'd, and check'd his breath,
As enamour'd he gaz'd on the maid so fair,
For there to be heard or seen was death,
And her slave, young Fatima, waited there.
And softly he stole from the vision bright,
Yet many a lingering look he cast
Thro' the foliage which shielded his form from sight,
And each look seem'd as wishing an age to last.
Ah! who could the lovely Christian be,
He thought and he sigh'd—while mem'ry flew
To where, in his fancy, was fairer than she,
“But for ever, for ever, she's lost to me,”
Burst from his lips, and himself he threw
On the turf that twinkled with morning dew;
And he thought of the days with the smiling hours,
When youth's fond vision form'd fairy bow'rs,
And he thought of the knell, and the priest, and pall,
The death that had darken'd his father's hall!
And he thought of good Simon, his only friend,
And his looks to heaven's blue vault ascend;
And his thoughts fly there to the friend of all,
While his asking eyes for mercy call:
And he spurns despair; and his labour plies,
Till broad is the sun in the western skies,
And then as he sat on a sculptur'd stone,
He saw that maiden straying alone;
She saw not him, on the flow'rs she gaz'd,
But no thought in her absent mind they rais'd;
She saw them not, to her grief a prey,
For she thought of the land that was far away.
As enamour'd he gaz'd on the maid so fair,
For there to be heard or seen was death,
And her slave, young Fatima, waited there.
And softly he stole from the vision bright,
Yet many a lingering look he cast
Thro' the foliage which shielded his form from sight,
And each look seem'd as wishing an age to last.
Ah! who could the lovely Christian be,
He thought and he sigh'd—while mem'ry flew
To where, in his fancy, was fairer than she,
“But for ever, for ever, she's lost to me,”
183
On the turf that twinkled with morning dew;
And he thought of the days with the smiling hours,
When youth's fond vision form'd fairy bow'rs,
And he thought of the knell, and the priest, and pall,
The death that had darken'd his father's hall!
And he thought of good Simon, his only friend,
And his looks to heaven's blue vault ascend;
And his thoughts fly there to the friend of all,
While his asking eyes for mercy call:
And he spurns despair; and his labour plies,
Till broad is the sun in the western skies,
And then as he sat on a sculptur'd stone,
He saw that maiden straying alone;
She saw not him, on the flow'rs she gaz'd,
But no thought in her absent mind they rais'd;
She saw them not, to her grief a prey,
For she thought of the land that was far away.
| Young Arthur | |