Oh, yet forgive!—be all my guilt forgot,
Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot!”
“That lot is fix’d—’twere fruitless to repine:
Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine.
I may forgive—but not at will the heart
Can bid its dark remembrances depart.
No, Hamet! no!—too deeply are these traced;
Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced!
Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep
Her lonely vigils o’er the grave to weep.