Yet this believe—no meaner aim inspires
My soul, no dream of power ambition fires.
No! every hope of power, of triumph, fled,
Behold me but th’ avenger of the dead!
One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred knows,
And in thy love alone hath sought repose.
Zayda! wilt thou his stern accuser be?
False to his country, he is true to thee!
Oh, hear me yet!—if Hamet e’er was dear,
By our first vows, our young affection, hear!