Must my love, the slave of duty,
Waste in age’s arms her bloom?
“If my lot be still to languish,
Thine, another’s bride to be,
Let thy lips pronounce my anguish;
‘Twill be bliss to die by thee!”
Rising sighs her grief discover;
Fast her tears, while speaking, pour—
“Zayde, my Zayde, our loves are over!
Zayde, my Zayde, we meet no more!