Imatges de pàgina
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THE LOVE-LETTER.

TO GEORGIANA.

“ For if you'll fly from love's connubial rights,
'Till one as charming as yourself invites,
None of our sex can ever bless your bed-
Ne'er think of wooing, for you ne'er can wed."

“ O let me breathe one vow upon that lip, beside whose bue The morning rose would sicken and grow pale."

“ Esperer aupres d'elle vant mieux que jouer avec tout autre."

Lady, if thou wilt be mine

Take, O take this slender ring-
Be it love, the golden shrine

Of our sweetest worshipping.

At the dim and vesper hour

When the sunny light has died,
Lady, seek the silent bower,

Love has curtain’d for my bride.

On thy crimson lips of bliss

Murmuring accents shall repose, Fond and glowing as the kiss

Burning Phæbus gives the rose.

As a white and beauteous dove

Fly to me all pure and fair Like the lily-queen, my love,

Save the blush thou needs must wear.

'Tis enough-wild rapture's dream

Greets me as already thineCome ye then, at twilight gleam,

Lady, if thou wilt be mine.

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THE BRIDEGROOM'S LAMENT.

Aye, marry 'tis a tale
Of old tradition, full of wonderment
And such sweet sorrows as make crystal beads
Hang from young maiden's eyes."

“ She died in all her summer glory,
Broken-hearted and unenjoyed.”

O my bed it is a tyrant,

And it will not let me sleep,
And my pillow seems to whisper

-“Hassan, lie awake and weep.”
For the couch that should delight me

With the bride-bliss of my mate,

Has no love-spell thrown around it,

But is lone and desolate.

O my faithful heart is bleeding,

And I hope it soon will break,
That lovers true may ever know

I died for my love's sake.

My troth-plight droop'd and faded

Ere she yet was well a bride, And it false would be if Hassan liv'd When young

Zoraida died.

O fatal was the dream I dreamt,

For on the blush of day
I woke, and from my lattice

Saw the eagle seize its prey ;
And the sun which rose so warmly,

To illume our holy rite,
Grew pale at eve, and coldly set,

Unlike a bridal night.

O bitter is my cup of life,

The cup, alas ! of woe,
And darkly o’er its venom-brim

The poison-waters flow.
The sweetest rose in Araby

Is wither'd ere 'twas blown, And the blighted heart it grew upon

Can never flower alone.

O weep, ye maids, and ye who prize

A maiden's peerless faith,

O tell it oft, when I am gone,

He sought his bride in death;
And when the Christian stranger

Shall muse within our groves,
Be sure, like fond and faithful ones,

Ye sing of our true-loves.

O brightest of the ebon-eyed,

Too pure on earth to be,
Ere morrow's dawn, we'll meet, my bride,

In fond eternity.
Yon silver moon that laughs on high,

As though to slight my pain,
May still disport her paly lamp,

But mocks not me again.

I come, I come, Zoraida love,

All in my summer's bloom :
I come to lay me by thy side

Within thy virgin tomb.
My lip shall press thy lily cheek,

Where late the roses spread,
And I'll clasp thee in a close embrace,

Since 'tis our bridal bed.

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