"Ho! my charger—my charger!" we mount, we depart,
And soft pity whisper'd in vain at my heart.
On the Greek maiden's threshold in frenzy I stood—
I was faint—and the sun seem'd as darken'd with blood:
By the maiden's lone window I listen'd, and there
I beheld an Armenian caressing the fair.
The light darken'd round me—then flash'd my good blade....
The minion ne'er finish'd the kiss that betray'd.
On the corse of the minion in fury I danced,
Then silent and pale at the maiden I glanced.
I remember the prayers and the red-bursting stream....
Thus perish'd the maiden—thus perish'd my dream.
This raven-black shawl from her dead brow I tore—
On its fold from my dagger I wiped off the gore.
The mists of the evening arose, and my slave
Hurl'd the corses of both in the Danube's dark wave.
Since then, I kiss never the maid's eyes of light—
Since then, I know never the soft joys of night.
Like a madman I gaze on the raven-black shawl;
Remorse, fear, and anguish—this heart knows them all!