By the dim lamp-light scarce displayed!

Oh! Grusinka, of earlier days

The vision burst upon thy soul,

The tongue long silent uttered praise,

The heart throbs high, but sin's control

Cannot escape, 'tis passion, passion sways!

The Princess in a maid's repose

Slumbered, her cheek, tinged like the rose,

By feverish thought, in beauty blooms,

And the fresh tear that stains her face

A smile of tenderness illumes.

Thus cheers the moon fair Flora's race,

When by the rain opprest they lie

The charm and grief of every eye!

It seemed as though an angel slept

From heaven descended, who, distressed,

Vented the feelings of his breast,

And for the harem's inmates wept!

Alas! poor Zarem, wretched fair,

By anguish urged to mere despair,

On bended knee, in tone subdued

And melting strain, for pity sued.

"Oh! spurn not such a suppliant's prayer!"

Her tones so sad, her sighs so deep,

Startled the Princess in her sleep;

Wond'ring, she views with dread before her

The stranger beauty, frighted hears

For mercy her soft voice implore her,

Raises her up with trembling hand,

And makes of her the quick demand,

"Who speaks? in night's still hour alone,

Wherefore art here?" "A wretched one,

To thee I come," the fair replied,