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, 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. FAREWELL TO ITALY "Heart on their lips, soul within their eyes, "An adieu should in utterance die, Or if written, but faintly appear; Only heard through the burst of a sigh- FAREWELL to thee, Italy-land where the light Farewell to thy grape-trellis'd bowers of bliss- Farewell to thy arbours of fragrance and shade, To pair in, (like dove-nests,) for true-lovers made; 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- Adieu to thy vines, and the nectar they pour- And to those I have sigh'd with-O sweetly farewell! THE TRUE-LOVE PAGE. "Now hold your mouth, pour charitie, Both knight and ladie free, And hearken to my spell; Of bataille and of chivalrie, 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. THE TRUE-LOVE PAGE. 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- He fought o'er her crest till a foeman's brand —They join'd their lips in a cold embrace, And the grave of the knight and his true-love Page |