The two fair girls were seated on an ottoman in the anderoon, while Ina worked a belt with golden thread, her first gift to Thaddeus. Zara struck the cords of her lute.
How sweet and thrilling was her voice, as she sang the following simple ballad:—
The sun shone like glittering gold on the lake,
While softly the breeze through the green forest play’d;
The birds sang their gay notes from rock and from brake,
And sweet odours sprung from each flowery glade;
There was heard too a fountain’s light murmuring voice,
And nature in smiles seemed with glee to rejoice.
Though nature was smiling, yet sorrow was nigh,
For near a pure stream, ’neath a green willow’s shade,
With her quick panting bosom, a bright weeping eye,
There stood, trembling with fear, a fair Attèghèi maid,
As a gallant youth, pressing her form in his arms,
Sought, with love’s parting kisses, to calm her alarms.
Mid the clustering forest his charger stood near.
And, his streaming mane tossing, was stamping the ground;
His squire was holding his buckler and spear,
While from far off came booming the cannon’s deep sound.
One more agonised pang, and he tore him away,
And mounted his war-steed to join the affray,
But as slowly he rode through the green leafy wood,
With a lingering pace he oft turned his fond gaze,
To cast one more glance where his lov’d maiden stood,
Till soon she was hid by the thick forest maze;
Then, spurring his charger with speed o’er the lee,
Soon with fear did the foemen his dancing crest see.
Like the willow which gracefully bent o’er the stream.
The maiden stood tremb’ling and drooping with grief,
Like the dew of the morn did those precious drops seem,
When the bright sun-beams play on the spark’ling green leaf.
Ah! cruel the war that could make her thus mourn!
Ah! sad ’twas to leave that sweet maiden forlorn!
Then rising, she clomb o’er the mountain so high,
And she look’d o’er the hill and she look’d down the vale;
Saw joyous in fancy his gay banner fly,
When her ear caught the sound of a funeral wail.
Through the glen, as advancing with mournful slow tread,
A train bore the bier of a warrior dead.
Then fearful and fleet as the chas’d deer she flew,
Down the steep mountain’s side, over chasm and brake.
For well the bright arms of her hero she knew;
Not the whirlwind’s swift course could her flight overtake.
Then she threw herself down her slain lover beside;
She sigh’d not, she wept not, but heart-broken died.
As she finished, tears stood in her eyes, and her voice trembled at the last lines.
“Why sing you that mournful ditty, dear Zara?” said her friend. “It is too sad for one, whose eye sorrow has not dimmed, to sing.”
“I know not why I sing it,” answered Zara; “but I could not help it, the words came flowing to my lips.”
“Who taught you so sad an air?” asked Ina.
“A venerable bard who travelled once this way. His steps were feeble, and his locks were blanched with years, and, as he rested at our house he sang this air, gazing sorrowfully at my face, and made me learn these words, I know not why. He went his way, nor ever have I seen him since: but still, at times, a sadness comes upon me, and I sing this song.”
A deep-drawn sob was heard from the corner of the apartment where the young Conrin had thrown himself on a divan.
“Come hither, Conrin,” said Ina, in tones of kindness. He had been weeping; for his eyes were red and his features wore an air of sadness.