Beneath Nuleeni's silver feet—
And who descends its craggy brow
Her love-lit smile, and cheek to greet?
O! for the speed of swiftest hound
At once into her arms to bound!
O ! for the speed of sunny beam,
Or eagle's wing, or airy dream,
Or lightning glance of rapid eye
From yonder rocky height to fly.—
And whence is he, and whose the arms
That circle fair Nuleeni's charms?—
His dusky brow, his raven hair,
His limbs of strength, his martial air,
His eye though softened into love
Far from the mildness of the dove.
His baldric round his manly waist,
His sabre hung, his pistols braced,
Bespeak him sure some bloody man—
The chieftain of a robber clan.
But whence came he?—'tis certain here
A sainted soul, a meek Fakeer,
On whom religion's sacred ray
Shines bright, hath dwelt for many a day.—
This is the saint—nay can it be
The holy man?—'tis he! 'tis he!