From the transparent waters, dashing round
Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of coolness,
O’er the pale glistening marble. ’Twill call up
Faint bloom, if but a moment’s, to your cheek.
Rest here, ere you go forth, and I will sing
The melody you love.
Theresa sings.
Why is the Spanish maiden’s grave
So far from her own bright land?
The sunny flowers that o’er it wave