158
THE SONG BY THE BARADA.
Yet still, when April suns are low,
I hear the wild sirocco blow,
And see, in memory's vision,
Abila's ruins strew the hill;
The stars the Syrian azure fill;
While, listening, all my pulses thrill
As soars that song Elysian.
I hear the wild sirocco blow,
And see, in memory's vision,
Abila's ruins strew the hill;
The stars the Syrian azure fill;
While, listening, all my pulses thrill
As soars that song Elysian.
