Now night descends, and steeps each weary breast,
Save sad Aciloe's, in the balm of rest.
Her aged father's beauteous dwelling stood
Near the cool shelter of a waving wood: 170
But now the gales that bend its foliage die,
Soft on the silver turf its shadows lie;
While, slowly wand'ring o'er the scene below,
The gazing moon look'd pale as silent woe.
The sacred shade, amid whose fragrant bowers 175
Zamor oft sooth'd with song the evening hours,
Pour'd to the lunar orb, his magic lay,
More mild, more pensive than her musing ray,
That shade with trembling step, the mourner sought,
And thus she breath'd her tender, plaintive thought. 180
"Ah where, dear object of these piercing pains,
"Where rests thy murder'd form, thy lov'd remains?
"On what sad spot, my Zamor, flow'd the wound
"That purpled with thy streaming blood the ground?
"Oh had Aciloe in that hour been nigh, 185
"Had'st thou but fix'd on me thy closing eye;
"Told with faint voice, 'twas death's worst pang to part,
"And dropp'd thy last, cold tear upon my heart!
"A pang less bitter then would waste this breast,
"That in the grave alone shall seek its rest.
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