AMIR KHAN.
5
Where was that voice that mocked the storm?Where was that tall, majestic form?That eye was turned in love and woeUpon Amreta's changeless brow;That haughty form was bending low:That voice was uttering vow on vow,Beneath the lofty plane-tree's shade,Before that cold Circassian maid!
"O speak, Amreta! but one word!Let one soft sigh confess I'm heard!Those eyes (than those of yon gazelleMore bright) a tale of love might tell!Then speak, Amreta! raise thine eye,Blush, smile, or answer with a sigh."
But 'twas in vain: no sigh, no wordTold that his humble suit was heard;Veiled 'neath their silken lashes there,Her dark eyes glanced no answered prayer;Upon her cheek no blush was straying,Around her lip no smile was playing;And calm despair reigned darkly nowO'er Amir Khan's deep-clouded brow.
What pity that so fair a formShould want a heart with feeling warm!What pity that an eye so brightShould beam o'er Reason's clouded night!And like a star on Mahmoud's wave,10Should glitter o'er a dreary grave:
