Upon the snow-peaks of that isle
Since she hath looked upon it last.
Looked last ! she shudders ; fatal sight !
Let Lethe's mighty waters roll
Over the memory of that night,
And wash it from her troubled soul.
But no ! that image cannot fade,
'Tis drawn in blood upon her heart,
Its crimson lines too deep inlaid
To pale till soul and body part ; —
The midnight yell, the bolt's sharp crash,
The turbaned corsair's demon eyes,
The crescent-cimetar's keen flash
'Neath which her murdered father lies,
Her shrieking infant wrenched away
From her and cast to earth like clay,
The cries of the resisting band
Led down despairing to the sea,
The death-strokes dealt by Olaf's hand,
His groan of hopeless agony,