LIV.
And from her lips the mountain-songs of old,
In wild, faint snatches, fitfully had sprung;
Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold,
The “Rio verde,”[304] on her soul that hung,
And thence flow’d forth. But now the sun was low,
And watching by my side its last red glow,
That ever stills the heart, once more she sung
Her own soft “Ora, Mater!” and the sound
Was e’en like love’s farewell—so mournfully profound.