Lilian. Oh, no! not these.
Jessy. What then?—the Moorish melody still known
Within the Alhambra city? or those notes
Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile’s heart
Even unto death?
Lilian. No, sister! nor yet these—
Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret,
Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes
In the caressing sweetness of their tones,
For one who dies. They would but woo me back