Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet! at the tone?
Came it not o’er thee as a spirit’s moan?
As some loved sound that long from earth had fled,
The unforgotten accents of the dead!
E’en thus it rose—and springing from his trance
His eager footsteps to the sound advance.
He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor;
Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o’er
He rushes on—and lo! where Zayda rends
Her locks, as o’er her slaughter’d sire she bends,