And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
"And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from
pain?"
To shun suspicion's eye, at last she left the king's highway,
And took the journey toward Seville that thro' a bypath lay;
With loosened rein her gallant steed right swiftly did she ride,
Yet to her fear he did appear like a rock on the rough wayside.
And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
"And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from
pain?"
So secretly would she proceed, her very breath she held,
Tho' with a rising storm of sighs her snowy bosom swelled.
And here and there she made a halt, and bent her head to hear
If footsteps sounded; then, assured, renewed her swift career.
And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain;
"And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from
pain?"
Her fancy in the silent air could whispering voices hear;
"I'll make of thee a sacrifice, to Albenzaide dear;"
This fancy took her breath away, lifeless she sank at length,
And grasped the saddle-bow; for fear had sapped her spirit's strength.
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