THOU, SELIMA! hast seen the tender Fawn,

Heedless of danger many a summer’s day,

Crop the sweet flowers and herbage of the lawn,

And oft around thee sport in harmless play.

 

Lo! now the hunter’s shout awakes his fears;

In vain, alas! his utmost speed he tries;

In every breeze the voice of death he hears,

With every breeze his soul desponding dies.

 

Ah! see, to thee he turns with eager speed:

Near thee he seeks protection from the foe:

Canst thou with tearless eye behold him bleed,

Nor strive to shield him from the fatal blow?

 

And wilt thou, then, dear Maid! one smile refuse,

To sooth the anguish of a faithful heart?

Whom tyrant LOVE unceasingly pursues,

And wounds more deeply than the hunter’s dart.