V. (FROM CANTO III.)

Clotilda! many hearts are light, And many lips dissemble; But I am thine till priests shall fight, Or Cœur de Lion tremble!— Hath Jerome burned his rosary, Or Richard shrunk from slaughter? Oh! no, no, Dream not so! But till you mean your hopes to die, Engrave them not in water! Sweet Ida, on my lonely way Those tears I will remember, Till icicles shall cling to May, Or roses to December!— Are snow-wreaths bound on Summer’s brow? Is drowsy Winter waking? Oh! no, no, Dream not so! But lances, and a lover’s vow, Were only made for breaking. Lenora, I am faithful still, By all the saints that listen, Till this warm heart shall cease to thrill, Or these wild veins to glisten!— This bosom,—is its pulse less high? Or sleeps the storm within it? Oh! no, no, Dream not so! But lovers find eternity In less than half a minute. And thus to thee I swear to-night, By thine own lips and tresses, That I will take no further flight, Nor break again my jesses: And wilt thou trust the faith I vowed, And dream in spite of warning? Oh! no, no, Dream not so! But go and lure the midnight cloud, Or chain the mist of morning. These words of mine, so false and bland, Forget that they were spoken! The ring is on thy radiant hand,— Dash down the faithless token! And will they say that Beauty sinned, That Woman turned a rover? Oh! no, no, Dream not so! But lovers’ vows are like the wind— And Vidal is a Lover.