But none in the mazy dance could move
Like Ada, the queen of this bower of love!
The moon in her silvery beauty shines
On this joyous throng through the lofty pines;
Lamps gleaming forth from every tree,
All was splendour and revelry;
Sweet perfumes were wafted by every breeze
From the flowering shrubs and the orange trees,
Mingling with sounds which were borne along
From the lover's lute and the minstrel's song;
Fair Ada's praise was the theme of all,
She was the queen of this festival.

* * * * *

She left the crowd and wandered on--
Where, oh where is the maiden gone?
She hears no longer the minstrel's lay,
The last sweet notes have died away,
Like the low, faint sound of maiden's sigh.
When the youth that she loves is standing by.

* * * * *

But where, oh where is Ada gone?
She is kneeling in a dungeon lone;
Her fillet of snowy pearls has now
Fall'n from its throne on her whiter brow,
And her fair, rich tresses, like floods of gold,
Gleam on the floor so damp and cold.