"
Here the pale sorceress turned her face aside
Wildly, and muttered to herself amazed;
"I dread her who, alone at such an hour,
Can speak so strangely, who can thus combine
The words of reason with our gifted rites,
Yet will I speak once more.--If thou hast seen
The city of Charoba, hast thou marked
The steps of Dalica?"
"What then?"
"The tongue
Of Dalica has then our rites divulged."
"Whose rites?"
"Her sister's, mother's, and her own."
"Never."
"How sayst thou never? one would think,
Presumptuous, thou wert Dalica."
"I am,
Woman, and who art thou?"
With close embrace,
Clung the Masarian round her neck, and cried:
"Art thou then not my sister? ah, I fear
The golden lamps and jewels of a court
Deprive thine eyes of strength and purity.
O Dalica, mine watch the waning moon,
For ever patient in our mother's art,
And rest on Heaven suspended, where the founts
Of Wisdom rise, where sound the wings of Power;
Studies intense of strong and stern delight!
And thou too, Dalica, so many years
Weaned from the bosom of thy native land,
Returnest back and seekest true repose.
Oh, what more pleasant than the short-breathed sigh
When laying down your burden at the gate,
And dizzy with long wandering, you embrace
The cool and quiet of a homespun bed.
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