This, indeed, would be a prize, for which the coward death would dare--
I would die to make thee happy, tho' thy lot I might not share!
Then, though I should fail to lift the burden on my darling laid,
Though I could not prove my love by rescuing my Moorish maid,
Yet my love would have this witness, first, thy confidence sublime,
Then my death for thee, recorded on the scroll of future time!
Yes, my death, for should I perish, it were comfort but to think
Thou couldst have henceforth on earth no blacker, bitterer cup to drink!
Sorrow's shafts would be exhausted, thou couldst laugh at fortune's
power.
Tho' I lost thee, yet this thought would cheer me in my parting hour.
Yet I believe that fate intends (oh, bear this forecast in thy mind!)
That all the love my passions crave will soon a full fruition find;
Fast my passion stronger grows, and if of love there measure be,
Believe it, dearest, that the whole can find its summary in me!
Deem that thou art foully wronged, whose graces have such power to bless,
If any of thy subject slaves to thee, their queen, should offer less,
And accept this pledged assurance, that oblivion cannot roll
O'er the image of thy beauty stamped on this enamored soul.
Pages:
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91