zorayda.
Thus the mystic chant.
When the proud eagle Sighs to the dove, And his dark wing spreads o'er her While fluttering with love:
That eagle's bright crest, And that dove's timid eye, Are quench'd in the storm That rolls recklessly by!
That storm the proud eagle Hath swept from his nest: But where is the dove Shelter'd once in his breast?
She clings to his plume, But in death they shall sever; The eagle and dove They have perish'd for ever!
hermione.
The eagle?—Mantua's crest!—But who the dove?
zorayda.
Tempt not yet further to thine harm: we rue
If thou break silence!
The spirit sings, but mine imperfect hearing
Shapes not its voice to aught articulate
That human utterance owns. Again—speak not—
'Twas thus he sang:
A sprite in the moon-beam,
A mote in the sun,
I dive in the smooth stream,
Through the curl'd flame I run.
I see o'er proud Mantua
The beacon's red light;
As the taper 'tis quench'd
In the chill blast of night!
I see from the turret
A maiden's dim form,
And her white robe waves high
On the wing of the storm!