Where the swift torrents dashing free, their mountain music pour;
And arched o’er all, the Eastern heaven lights up with glory rare
The landscape’s wild magnificence;—but she has other care!
Why flings she thus, with gesture fierce, her silent lute aside?
Some deep emotion chafes her soul with more than wonted pride;
But, hark! a sound has reached her heart, inaudible elsewhere,
And hushed, to melting tenderness, the storm of passion there!
The far-off fall of fairy feet, that fly in eager glee,
A voice, that warbles wildly sweet, some Jewish melody!
She comes! her own Salomé comes! her pure and blooming child!