The soul’s young bloom, which passion’s breath could blight—
The smiling stillness of life’s morning hour,
Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power.
Meanwhile, through groves of deep luxurious shade,
In the rich foliage of the South array’d,
Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day,
Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way.
Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave
On high o’er many an Aben-Zurrah’s grave.
Lonely and fair, its fresh and glittering leaves