Hark! the window softly telling,
Zayda comes to bless his sight;
Bright as sun-beams clouds dispelling,
Mild as Cynthia’s trembling light.
“Dearest, say, to what I’m fated!”
Cried the Moor, as near he drew:
“Is the tale my page related,
Loveliest lady, is it true?
“To an ancient lord thy beauty
Does thy tyrant father doom?