Читать книгу Béarn and the Pyrenees - Louisa Stuart Costello - Страница 53

Anew I tune my lute to love,

Ere storms disturb the tranquil hour,

For her who strives my truth to prove,

My only pride, and beauty's flower;

But who will ne'er my pain remove,

Who knows and triumphs in her power.

I am, alas! her willing thrall;

She may record me as her own:

Nor my devotion weakness call,

That her I prize, and her alone:

Without her can I live at all,

A captive so accustom'd grown?

What hope have I?—Oh lady dear!

Do I then sigh in vain for thee;

And wilt thou, ever thus severe,

Be as a cloistered nun to me?

Methinks this heart but ill can bear

An unrewarded slave to be!

Why banish love and joy thy bowers—

Why thus my passion disapprove?

When, lady, all the world were ours

If thou couldst learn, like me, to love.