Aciloe's searching eye can now no more 65
The form of Zamor, or her sire explore;
She hears the moan of death in every gale,
She sees a purple torrent stain the vale;
While destin'd all the bitterness to prove
Of mourning duty, and of bleeding love, 70
Each name that's dearest wakes her bursting sigh,
Throbs at her soul, and trembles in her eye.
Now, pierc'd by wounds, and breathless from the fight,
Her friend, the valiant Omar, struck her sight:
"Omar (she cried) you bleed, unhappy youth, 75
"And sure that look unfolds some fatal truth:
"Speak, pitying speak, my frantic fears forgive,
"Say, does my father, does my Zamor live?"
"All, all is lost, (the dying Omar said)
"And endless griefs are thine, dear wretched maid; 80
"I saw thy aged sire a captive bound,
"I saw thy Zamor press the crimson ground"--
He could no more, he yields his fleeting breath,
While all in vain she seeks repose in death.
But, oh, how far each other pang above 85
Throbs the wild agony of hopeless love;
That grief, for which in vain shall comfort shed
Her healing balm, or time in pity spread
The veil, that throws a shade o'er other care;
For here, and here alone, profound despair 90
Casts o'er the suff'ring soul a lasting gloom,
And slowly leads her victim to the tomb.
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