Imatges de pàgina

Whose voice the tenderest song can trill,

I pr'ythee tell to me.

Say who?

C'est vous,

Once more declare,

C'est vous ma chere.

And who, I pray, is matchless seen,
Who may that fair one be?

And who is beauty's radiant queen,

I pr'ythee tell to me.

Say who?

C'est vous,

Once more declare,

C'est vous ma chere.

And last, who claims the happy boon

Of fondly tempting thee,

TO SHARE a blissful honeymoon,

I pr'ythee tell to me.

Say who?

C'est vous,

Once more declare,

C'est vous ma chere.


"Heart on their lips, soul within their eyes,
Soft as their clime, and sunny as their skies."

"An adieu should in utterance die,

Or if written, but faintly appear;
Only heard through the burst of a sigh-
Only read through the blot of a tear."

FAREWELL to thee, Italy-land where the light
And the lustre of love is perennial and bright;
And whose heart-creed, O heaven! is like unto mine,
Which worships dear woman-as all that's divine.

Farewell to thy grape-trellis'd bowers of bliss-
Farewell to the lips I may never more kiss-
Farewell to thy myrtles and bloom-scented glades-
And farewell to thy fond and thy warm-bosom'd maids.

Farewell to thy arbours of fragrance and shade,

To pair in, (like dove-nests,) for true-lovers made;
Farewell to thy fountains that dance in the sun,

Where the gentle are woo'd, and the tender are won.

Like the lightning that gilds thy cerulean skies

Are the fires that flash from thy dark-daughters' eyes;

Like the mingling of lutes, when the breeze wantons by,

Is the music that floats on the balm of their sigh.

Thou 'rt the clime where young Cupid delights him to rove-
Thou 'rt the cradle of Venus-the rose-bed of love-
Thou'rt the Eden to which all the joy-rites belong-
Thou'rt the birth-land of beauty, of bliss, and of song.

Adieu to thy vines, and the nectar they pour-
Adieu to the blue wave that sleeps on thy shore
Adieu to each mountain-adieu to each dell-

And to those I have sigh'd with-O sweetly farewell!


"Now hold your mouth, pour charitie,

Both knight and ladie free,

And hearken to my spell;

Of bataille and of chivalrie,
Of ladie-love and druerie,
Anon I wol you tell."

He gave his plume to the battle-wind,
Whilst the red, red bolts were flying ;
And rais'd his war-cry loud and high,
Where the sons of death were dying.

All raven-black was his panoply,

His barb-steed white as snow;

And his lance it danc'd, as if drunk with the blood

From the heart-veins of the foe.

"Sir knight, sir knight, it ill befalls,

That thou dost ride to the foray;

O know'st thou not, through helm and targe,
Thy true-love Page-thy Mary.

For thee has she left proud hall and bower

To fight by her lover's side;

And the sad hour's come, when her eyes shall close

In the foam of the battle-tide."

The shaft is sped-her white bosom 's rent-
One glance told the knight her story,

He fought o'er her crest till a foeman's brand
Bequeath'd him the bed of glory.

-They join'd their lips in a cold embrace,
Their knell was the cannon's rattle,

And the grave of the knight and his true-love Page
Is the crimson heath of battle!

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