O’er hill and golden-sanded stream,

And thy square turrets in the light

And taper columns gleam,{35}

{35}

Will village maiden dare to fill

Her pitcher from that basin wide,

But rather seeks a niggard rill

Far down the steep hill-side!

It was an Andalusian maid,

With rose and pink-enwoven hair,

Who told me what the fear that stayed

Their footsteps from that stair:

How, rising from that watery floor,

A Moorish maiden, in the gleam

Of the wan moonlight, stands before

The stirrer of the stream:

And mournfully she begs the grace,

That they would speak the words divine,

And sprinkling water in her face,

Would make the sacred sign.{36}

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