Of the Moor’s ancient death-song. Well I know
The rude barbaric sound; but, till this hour,
It seem’d not fearful. Now, a shuddering chill
Comes o’er me with its tones.—Lo! from yon tent
They lead the noble boys!
Her. The young, and pure,
And beautiful victims!—’Tis on things like these
We cast our hearts in wild idolatry,
Sowing the wands with hope! Yet this is well:
Thus brightly crown’d with life’s most gorgeous flowers,