"Hadst thou but seen, on Tigris' banks, this morn
Wasting her wild complaints, a wretched maid,
Stung with her wrongs--lone--beauty-reft--forlorn--
And learned 'twas ev'n thy Meles who betrayed,
"Well hadst thou then shrunk to return his love
But wherefore now, on theme of sorrow bide?--
What would thy beauty? here I wait--nay, prove
A spirit's power, nor be my boon denied!
"I'll tell thee secrets of the neither earth
And highest heaven--or dost some service crave?
Declare thy bidding, best of mortal birth,
I'll be thy winged messenger, thy slave." (7)