with stilly night overhead, their troubles assuaged, their 10
hearts dead to care. Not so the vexed spirit of Phœnicia’s
daughter; she never relaxes into slumber, or
welcomes the night to eye or bosom; sorrow doubles peal
on peal; once more love swells, and storms, and surges,
with a mighty tempest of passion. Thus, then, she 15
plunges into speech, and whirls her thoughts about thus
in the depth of her soul:—“What am I about? Am I
to make fresh proof of my former suitors, with scorn before
me? Must I stoop to court Nomad bridegrooms, whose