At first she spoke not; but at length her lips
Moved, quivering as in pain, while o’er her face
An ashen paleness came, which whiter seemed
From startling contrast with her ebon hair;
“Father”, she murmured, “speak of that no more! 
I shared thy coming to this Syrian shore,
And here shall die, for nothing more I crave
Than on these lonely hills to find a grave. 
My life, though like a flower deprived of light,
Hath yet known moments so divinely bright,
So full of rapture, that I then forgave
The insults we endured, and still could brave
Existence in Seville, if thou wouldst stay;
But in thy absence how could I betray
My dying mother’s trust and farewell prayer
That I henceforth thy lonely life should share?”

She paused, and from her lips a stifled moan
Revealed the torture that her soul had known. 
Her father noted it, and with a sigh
Of self-reproach attempted a reply;—­
“Dear child, thy love for me hath cost thee much;
For young Emanuel,—­shrink not from my touch!—­
Was dear to thee; I knew it, and confess
That I, to consummate thy happiness,
Had given thee to him with full consent,
(Who with Emanuel would not be content?)
Had not my vow and purpose of long years
Compelled me to depart despite thy tears. 
I knew the struggle, Rachel, in thy heart,
I felt the anguish of thy soul to part
From one for whom thy love was so intense;
In truth, for weeks I suffered in suspense,
Lest thy impetuous temperament might lead
Even thee to leave me, in my hour of need,
Infirm with years, to sail alone from Spain,
Go unattended on the stormy main,
And lay my poor, worn body in a grave
Unknown, uncared for, by a foreign wave. 
God bless thee, Rachel, that thy noble soul
Could make this filial choice, and thus control
A love which, though supreme, could not efface
Thy duty, as a daughter of thy race;
Thy ancestors were princes on this hill! 
Within thy veins their blood runs nobly still!”

Rachel sat motionless, with outstretched hands,
And fingers interlocked; her steadfast eyes
Had hopeless sorrow in their stony gaze,
As though they read Fate’s sentence of despair. 
At length she turned her face; the light had fled
From her young features, just as in the west
The glow had faded from the sky, and left
A wintry coldness in the unlit clouds. 
She seemed about to speak, when, sweet and clear,
From out the shadow of the ancient wall
Soft vocal music stirred the evening air,
With plaintive passion thrilled,—­a proof that love
Inspired the words that floated into song,—­

Light of the glorious, setting sun,
    Gilding the Syrian shore,
Ere the bright, lingering day be done,
Guide me to her whose heart, well won,
    Holds me forevermore.

Moon, that hath spanned the silvered plain,
    Olivet’s brow to kiss,
Lead her by memory’s golden chain
Back to the olive groves of Spain;
    Back to our days of bliss!