No voice, no step, is in her father’s halls,
Mute are the echoes of their marble walls;
No stranger enters at the chieftain’s gate,
But all is hush’d, and void, and desolate.
There, through each tower and solitary shade,
In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri maid:
Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone,
Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown;
And through the scene she loved, unheeded flows
The stream whose music lull’d her to repose.