by John Kearsley Mitchell
No longer here, as once of yore,
When love, in peace, could love adore,
The Grecian loyer woos his bride.
With vines above and flowers beside.
His scimitar with gore is wet.
The Pacha's blood bedews it yet.
He sought her in the Moslem's tower.
He wrench'd her from the robber's power,
And left his mansion desolate.
To prove his love, and seal his hate.
Last updated June 27, 2019