Zanouba's Song

O face of the tulip! and bosom

Of the jasmine! whose Cypress are you?

Whose fate are you, cold-hearted Blossom? --

In the Garden of Grace, where you grew,

The lily boasts no more her fragrance,

And the rose hangs her head at your feet;

Ah! whose is that mouth like the rose-bud,

Making honey seem no longer sweet?

You pass, taking hearts; you ensnare one

Like wine; and your eyes dart a light

As of arrows. Whose are you, most fair one!

With brow like the crescent of night?

Have you come to make me, too, your victim?

So be it! Ah, loveliest lip,

Give now to this slave who adores you

One drop from that death-cup to sip."