LIV.

And from her lips the mountain-songs of old, In wild, faint snatches, fitfully had sprung; Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold, The “_Rio verde_,”[304] on her soul that hung, And thence flow’d forth. But now the sun was low, And watching by my side its last red glow, That ever stills the heart, once more she sung Her own soft “_Ora, Mater!_” and the sound Was e’en like love’s farewell--so mournfully profound.