University of Virginia Library

The dance is almost done,
And laguidly the dancers move;
Already coos the early dove,
Already all the east begins to glow
With mellow morning-tints; and, lo!
Yonder the morning sun!
The lamps are paling in the rooms,
And now o'er minaret and spire
And hushed pagoda, runs a thrill of fire,
And rosy flush of blooms.
Long threads of morning light
Are woven on the ruddy mountain-peaks;
The dawn is here with all his gleesome freaks,
Painting with gold and amber streaks
The dark face of the gloom,
And flinging unbought favours down
On nooks and corners of the town,
On palace, tower, and tomb.
And all night long, through all the mazes of the dance,
Have Walter Verner and sweet Alice Grey
Been burning in the fierce and furtive glance
Of Zara far away.
Sullenly has she answered every call
To join the revelry,
And kept her seat behind the thickest fall
Of Persian tapestry;
Darting her arrowy looks along the room,
Across the giddy swim
Of silks and muslins, and of tresses dim,
Amid their topaz and their ruby bloom,
Searching alone for him.

Alone, amid that music, mirth, and sheen,
He has the power to thrill her inmost heart,
To bid the dusky goddess play her part,
And be once more a Queen;
To flame her passionate beauty on the sight,
And be the Cleopatra of the night;
But not a look amid the endless dance
Has answered Zara's dark and passionate glance;
And hence her anger, hence her frequent sigh,
And hence the leaping lightning in her eye.
Ah! let the glad and golden music roll,
It will not soothe the trouble of her soul,
It will not tame the fierceness of her frown,
Though in sweet gushes it go up in prayer,
With passionate pleading hands into the air,
With musical sighs and moanings of despair,
To bring the infinite down.
She has no sighs to throw away
On aught, save Walter and sweet Alice Grey.

All through that weary, weary night,
Heavy with musky odours, filled with light,
Glad with a hundred voices, gay with wit,
Thrilling with music, droll with sparkling fun,
Flashing with riches rare,—
Alone in her great beauty will she sit,
Catching the wavy glory in her hair,
Flinging the brightness back with many an angry glare,
And wishing all were done.
For what to her are music, mirth, and wine?
What all this blaze of beauty but an empty sign?
What all this glorious talk, though half divine,
But idle air?
A worship offered at a godless shrine,—
A garlanded despair.

He is no longer hers,—but was he ever?
A low, wild, silver laugh rang through the room,
And then a thrilling whisper,—“Never, never!”
Startled the dancers like the breath of doom;
But soon the fearless English bloom
Into the ladies' cheeks came back, crimson and glad as ever.
Aye, let her ponder! She will never find
Aught more than this to soothe her angry mind—
“Walter was always generous, always kind,
But nothing more,
And nothing more,—ah! nothing more
Will he now be to her, for ever and for ever!”

Henceforth her heart and life are lorn,
Henceforth the world is dim,—
Its sunny tresses soiled or shorn,
Its banners of beauty draggled and torn,
Its bridal blushes wan and worn,
For she is nought to him.

His heart is in his eyes agleam,—
His honest heart, as open as day!—
Its love is all for Alice Grey,
For her, oh! not a beam.