« EelmineJätka »
FROM these lone shades and ever-gloomy bowers,
O then, by that mysterious art, divine
As in the tenderness of soul I sigh,
So bowers the shade, so melt my tears for thee!
How oft night stole, unheeded, on the day!
Our soft-breath'd raptures charm'd the listening
grove, And all was harmony, for all was love!
But hark! the trumpet sounds! see discords rise! 'Tis honor calls; from me my Henry flies!
Honor to him, more bright than Rosamonda's eyes! Not thus my honor with his passion strove,
His sighs I pitied, and indulg'd his love:
He then cried, "honor was an empty name,
Oh! had I liv'd in some obscure retreat, Securely fair, and innocently sweet;
How had I bless'd some humble shepherd's arms! How kept my fame as spotless as my charms!