« VorigeDoorgaan »
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at once awake! How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes! How many visions of a maiden that is
No more--no more upon thy verdant slopes !
No more! alas, that magical sad sound
Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more—
Thy memory no more! Accursed ground
Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"
HOU wouldst be loved?—then let thy heart From its present pathway part not! Being everything which now thou art, Be nothing which thou art not. So with the world thy gentle ways, Thy grace, thy more than beauty, Shall be an endless theme of praise, And love-a simple duty.
HE ring is on my hand,
lord he loves me well;
But, when first he breathed his vow,
I felt my bosom swell—
For the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seemed his who fell
And the wreath is on my brow;
Satins and jewels grand
And I am happy now.
In the battle down the dell,
And who is happy now.
But he spoke to reassure me,