She comes, and anger yields to love, and sorrow is beguiled:
Her singing bird! low nestling now upon the parent breast,
She murmurs of the monarch’s vow with girlish laugh and jest:—
“Now choose me a gift and well!
There are so many joys I covet!
Shall I ask for a young gazelle?
’Twould be more than the world to me;
Fleet and wild as the wind,
Oh! how I would cherish and love it!
With flowers its neck I’d bind,