And now, in fancy’s airy dream,
The Lascar Boy his Mother spied;
And, from her breast, a crimson stream
Slow trickled down her beating side:
And now he heard her wild, complain,
As loud she shriek’d—but shriek’d in vain!
And now she sunk upon the ground,
The red stream trickling from her wound,
And near her feet a murd’rer stood,
His glitt’ring poniard tipp’d with blood!