The Beginning of the Story - Page 8 of 25

113   Deduces he, with dolours fraught,
Life steps its Line – ^[17] nor doubts his thought.
Voice broken, heart all fev'rish wrought,
He wails – and wailing is distraught:

114   Adieu, Albania, wretched state
Of sin, of treachery, of hate;
Though dying at thine own dictate,
Thy savior sorrows for thy fate. ^[18]

115   Oh, may you never know the smite
Of fatal spear, of foeman's spite;
Be armed – like me, your cause to fight
Before you doomed me to this plight.

116   You met with scorn the vows I swore
To lay for you my blood and more;
You would that beasts should waste it sore
Than gain your freedeom by its store.

117   My earliest dreams were ever to heed
Your call, and constant fill your need;
How oft from perilous threats, indeed,
'Twas by my hand that you were freed?

118   For this, a lowly death I reap,
Yet shall my gratitude be deep
If you but love and safely keep
That faithless darling I beweep –

119   That Laura whom not death can ever
From this my constant breast dissever.
My land, my love, farewell forever;
My love untrue, forgotten never.

120   Unfeeling Land, -- Love twicely spent, --
False Laura, --Adolph fiercely bent, --
Rejoice to all your hearts' content,
I nigh your fell intent.

121   The worst is come, here face to face:
Brutes of a bloody, murderous race.
Yea, shall you soon your goal embrace,
And I the end to this disgrace.

122   So then, my Laura – woe is me! –
So I shall die, unloved by thee?
Than this no bitterer bane can be:
Who'll consecrate my memory?

123   So then, in all of this despair,
For me not one tear you would spare?
If my life slip to less than air,
Your thought concede me not a share?

124   O it is baneful thus to doubt!
O melt, my heart, my tears to rout!
Soul, through mine eyes, O break and spout!
Drops of my blood, race out! rush out!

125   That tears of pain might prove no less
Than my true love's forgetfulness,
Beweep not life, but tears address
To love accursed with strife and stress.

126   These moans so dismally relayed,
Warrior's pity would not be stayed.
He marked the voice; a search he made,
His pathways opened up by blade.

127   The tangled brambles crashed and cracked,
By the keen saber hewed and hacked;
Nor paused the Moor in quest, nor slacked,
Till weeping fountain he had tracked.

128   The sun lay level to the eye,
Dipping into the western sky,
Ere captive youth he could espy,
A sight 'twas sadness to descry.