What were his words? What tidings

         He bore – perchance thou know'st.

                          Oft he has cheered her

         With promise of a happier time, when all

         Shall be revealed.

                   Oh, say – betokens aught

         The time is near?

                   Not distant far the day

         That to the arms of kindred love once more

         Shall give the long forsaken, orphaned maid —

         Thus with mysterious words the aged man

         Has shadowed oft what most I dread – for awe

         Of change disturbs the soul supremely blest:

         Nay, more; but yesterday his message spoke

         The end of all my joys – this very dawn,

         He told, should smile auspicious on her fate,

         And light to other scenes – no precious hour

         Delayed my quick resolves – by night I bore her

         In secret to Messina.

                     Rash the deed

         Of sacrilegious spoil! forgive, my prince,

         The bold rebuke; thus to unthinking youth

         Old age may speak in friendship's warning voice.

         Hard by the convent of the Carmelites,

         In a sequestered garden's tranquil bound,

         And safe from curious eyes, I left her, – hastening

         To meet my brother: trembling there she counts

         The slow-paced hours, nor deems how soon triumphant

         In queenly state, high on the throne of fame,

         Messina shall behold my timid bride.

         For next, encompassed by your knightly train,

         With pomp of greatness in the festal show,

         Her lover's form shall meet her wondering gaze!

         Thus will I lead her to my mother; thus —

         While countless thousands on her passage wait

         Amid the loud acclaim – the royal bride

         Shall reach my palace gates!

                        Command us, prince,

         We live but to obey!

                    I tore myself

         Reluctant from her arms; my every thought

         Shall still be hers: so come along, my friends,

         To where the turbaned merchant spreads his store

         Of fabrics golden wrought with curious art;

         And all the gathered wealth of eastern climes.

         First choose the well-formed sandals – meet to guard

         And grace her delicate feet; then for her robe

         The tissue, pure as Etna's snow that lies

         Nearest the sun-light as the wreathy mist

         At summer dawn – so playful let it float

         About her airy limbs. A girdle next,

         Purple with gold embroidered o'er, to bind

         With witching grace the tunic that confines

         Her bosom's swelling charms: of silk the mantle,

         Gorgeous with like empurpled hues, and fixed

         With clasp of gold – remember, too, the bracelets

         To gird her beauteous arms; nor leave the treasure

         Of ocean's pearly deeps and coral caves.

         About her locks entwine a diadem

         Of purest gems – the ruby's fiery glow

         Commingling with the emerald's green. A veil,

         From her tiara pendent to her feet,

         Like a bright fleecy cloud shall circle round

         Her slender form; and let a myrtle wreath

         Crown the enchanting whole!

                        We haste, my prince.

         Amid the Bazar's glittering rows, to cull

         Each rich adornment.

                    From my stables lead

         A palfrey, milk-white as the steeds that draw

         The chariot of the sun; purple the housings,

         The bridle sparkling o'er with precious gems,

         For it shall bear my queen! Yourselves be ready

         With trumpet's cheerful clang, in martial train

         To lead your mistress home: let two attend me,

         The rest await my quick return; and each

         Guard well my secret purpose.

            The princely strife is o'er, and say,

             What sport shall wing the slow-paced hours,

            And cheat the tedious day?

             With hope and fear's enlivening zest

             Disturb the slumber of the breast,

             And wake life's dull, untroubled sea

             With freshening airs of gay variety.

            Lovely is peace! A beauteous boy,

             Couched listless by the rivulet's glassy tide,

             'Mid nature's tranquil scene,

            He views the lambs that skip with innocent joy,

             And crop the meadow's flowering pride: —

            Then with his flute's enchanting sound,

            He wakes the mountain echoes round,

             Or slumbers in the sunset's ruddy sheen,

             Lulled by the murmuring melody.

            But war for me! my spirit's treasure,

            Its stern delight, and wilder pleasure:

            I love the peril and the pain,