University of Virginia Library

XVIII.

Before them rose a large and lofty tent,
Tissued with emblems of Spain's ancient wars;
Through the slight silk the myrtle breathed its scent,
And pour'd their beams the blue and midnight stars.
Raised, like an idol, on the slight ascent
Of a low, central tripod sat a Moor,
The young magician of those sounds: the floor,
The waving walls, were touch'd with tender gloom.
She was unveil'd, and yet the shawl of green,
That wreathed its thick pearl'd fringe her locks between,
Threw shadow, dim and deep, upon her bloom;
But slight the tinge the Afric sun had thrown
Upon her cheek, the eye dark diamond shone.
She sat beneath a lamp of figured gold,
That on her turban pour'd a dazzling flame.
Her minstrel tale of wonder but half told,
Her hand still floating o'er the harp's rich frame;
She gave one glance: her cheek seem'd flush'd with shame.
She cast upon the ground her startled eye,
And swept the harp,—a clash of discord came;
Her bosom through its caftan panted high;
But all her voice was one deep, painful sigh.
The gay assemblage, sympathizing, gazed
On her strange beauty and her sudden pain.
Their plaudits proud her sinking spirit raised,
She bow'd, and, blushing deep, renew'd the strain.
Again her hand, her voice seem'd wandering;—
She dried a tear, and gave her prison'd anguish wing.