Elm. Your songs are not as those of other days,
Mine own Ximena! Where is now the young
And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once
Breathed in your spring-like melodies, and woke
Joy’s echo from all hearts?
Xim. My mother, this
Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds;
And these are not the halls wherein my voice
First pour’d those gladd’ning strains.
Elm. Alas! thy heart