Rayana say, how many a tedious year
    Its hallow’d circle o’er our heads hath roll’d,
  Since to my vows thy tender maids gave ear,
    And fondly listened to the tale I told?

  How oft, since then, the star of spring, that pours
    A never-failing stream, hath drenched thy head? 
  How oft, the summer cloud in copious showers
    Or gentle drops its genial influence shed?

  How oft since then, the hovering mist of morn
    Hath caus’d thy locks with glittering gems to glow? 
  How oft hath eve her dewy treasures borne
    To fall responsive to the breeze below?

  The matted thistles, bending to the gale,
    Now clothe those meadows once with verdure gay;
  Amidst the windings of that lonely vale
    The teeming antelope and ostrich stray.

  The large-eyed mother of the herd that flies
    Man’s noisy haunts, here finds a sure retreat,
  Here watches o’er her young, till age supplies
    Strength to their limbs and swiftness to their feet.

  Save where the swelling stream hath swept those walls
    And giv’n their deep foundations to the light
  (As the retouching pencil that recalls
    A long-lost picture to the raptur’d sight).

  Save where the rains have wash’d the gathered sand
    And bared the scanty fragments to our view,
  (As the dust sprinkled on a punctur’d hand
    Bids the faint tints resume their azure hue).

  No mossy record of those once lov’d seats
    Points out the mansion to inquiring eyes;
  No tottering wall, in echoing sounds, repeats
    Our mournful questions and our bursting sighs.

  Yet, midst those ruin’d heaps, that naked plain,
    Can faithful memory former scenes restore,
  Recall the busy throng, the jocund train,
    And picture all that charm’d us there before.

  Ne’e shall my heart the fatal morn forget
    That bore the fair ones from these seats so dear—­
  I see, I see the crowding litters yet,
    And yet the tent-poles rattle in my ear.

  I see the maids with timid steps descend,
    The streamers wave in all their painted pride,
  The floating curtains every fold extend,
    And vainly strive the charms within to hide.

  What graceful forms those envious folds enclose! 
    What melting glances thro’ those curtains play! 
  Sure Weira’s antelopes, or Tudah’s roes
    Thro’ yonder veils their sportive young survey!

  The band mov’d on—­to trace their steps I strove,
    I saw them urge the camel’s hastening flight,
  Till the white vapor, like a rising grove,
    Snatch’d them forever from my aching sight.

  Nor since that morn have I Nawara seen,
    The bands are burst which held us once so fast,
  Memory but tells me that such things have been,
    And sad Reflection adds, that they are past.