THE ZEGRI MAID.
93
—Where summer leaves were sighing,
Thus sang the Zegri maid,
While the crimson day was dying
In the whispery olive shade.
"And for all this heart's wealth wasted,
This woe, in secret borne,
This flower of young life blasted,
Should I win back aught but scorn?
By aught but daily dying
Would my lone truth be repaid?"
—Where the olive leaves were sighing,
Thus sang the Zegri maid.
