Where is he? Where is this noble youth? Where is he, Daja? Oh, lead me to his feet! But you already Have surely lavished on him all the wealth That I had left behind; have given him all-- And promised more, much more.
He came we know not whence, he went We know not whither. To the house a stranger, And guided by his ear alone, he rushed With fearless daring through the smoke and flame, His mantle spread before him, till he reached The spot whence issued piercing screams for help. We thought him lost; when, bursting through the fire, He stood before us, bearing in his arms Her almost lifeless form. Unmoved and cold, Deaf to our cries of thanks, he left his prize, Passed through the wondering crowd, and disappeared.
For some days after, 'neath yon spreading palms, Which wave above our blest Redeemer's grave, We saw him pacing thoughtful to and fro. With transport I approached to speak my thanks. I pleaded, begged, entreated that for once, Once only, he would see the grateful maid, Who longed to shed at her preserver's feet Her tears of gratitude.
Deaf to my warmest prayers, he poured on me Such bitter taunts----
Far otherwise. I sought to meet him daily, And daily heard his harsh insulting words. Much have I borne, and would have borne still more; But lately he has ceased his lonely walk Beneath the spreading palms that shade the grave Of Him who rose from death; and no man knows Where he may now be found. You seem surprised.
I was considering how such a scene Must work upon a mind like Recha's. Scorned By one whom she can never cease to prize; Repelled by one who still attracts her to him. Her head and heart at strife! And long, full long The contest may endure, without the power To say if anger or regret shall triumph. Should neither prove the victor, Fancy then May mingle in the fray, and turn her brain. Then Passion will assume fair Reason's garb, And Reason act like Passion. Fatal change! Such, doubtless, if I know my Recha well, Must be her fate; her mind is now unhinged.
The thought she clings to most, Is that the Templar was no earthly form, But her blest guardian angel, such as she From childhood fancied hovering o'er her path; Who from his veiling cloud, amid the fire Rushed to her aid in her preserver's form. You smile incredulous. Who knows the truth? Permit her to indulge the fond deceit, Which Christian, Jew, and Mussulman alike Agree to own. The illusion is so sweet!