The Zegri Maid

The summer leaves were sighing
Around the Zegri maid,
To her low, sad song replying
As it fill’d the olive shade.
“Alas! for her that loveth
Her land’s, her kindred’s foe!
Where a Christian Spaniard roveth,
Should a Zegri’s spirit go?

“From thy glance, my gentle mother!
I sink, with shame oppress’d,
And the dark eye of my brother
Is an arrow to my breast.”--
Where summer leaves were sighing
Thus sang the Zegri maid,
While the crimson day was dying
In the whispery olive shade.

“And for all this heart’s wealth wasted,
This woe in secret borne,
This flower of young life blasted,
Should I win back aught but scorn?
By aught but daily dying
Would my lone truth be repaid?”--
Where the olive leaves were sighing,
Thus sang the Zegri maid.