With her long locks crown’d for her bridal-day,
And brought to die of the burning dreams
That haunt the exile by foreign streams.
They bade her sing of her distant land—
She held its lyre with a trembling hand,
Till the spirit its blue skies had given her woke,
And the stream of her voice into music broke.
Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow—
Troubled its murmur, and sad and low;
But it swell’d into deeper power ere long,