The cold dropping rain is on the rocks of Torlena, the blast of the desert lifts thy yellow locks. But thy daughter will sit, pale beside thee, till she sinks, a faded flower, upon thy lifeless form. They had rolled on Selama, and he asked the daughter of Connal.
Thy smiles are like the moonbeam trembling on the waves.
Thy voice is the gale of summer that whispers among the reeds of the lake, and awakens the harp of Moilena with all its lightly-trembling strings. He came with his stately steps. Tonthormo bends in all his pride, before the arm of youth. He have again his sword. But, careless as he strode away, rage arose in the troubled thoughts of the vanquish'd.