“Zayda! what means that glance, unlike thine own?
What mean those words, and that unwonted tone?
I will not deem thee changed—but in thy face,
It is not joy, it is not love, I trace!
It was not thus in other days we met:
Hath time, hath absence, taught thee to forget?
Oh! speak once more—these rising doubts dispel:
One smile of tenderness, and all is well!”
“Not thus we met in other days!—oh, no!
Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country’s foe!