 | Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover |  |
SONG OF THE ITALIAN TROUBADOUR.
A troubaduor gay from the southland came forth,
And knelt to a golden-hair'd maid of the north,
“Farewell to the southland, for ever,” said he,
“I regret not my country while listening to thee;
For thy voice like an echo from fairyland seems,
A voice made to waken a bard from his dreams;—
That might blend with his visions in regions of bliss,
And make him forget that he waken'd in this;
Then farewell to the southland, the northland for me,
'Tis my country, wherever I'm list'ning to thee!
And knelt to a golden-hair'd maid of the north,
“Farewell to the southland, for ever,” said he,
“I regret not my country while listening to thee;
For thy voice like an echo from fairyland seems,
A voice made to waken a bard from his dreams;—
That might blend with his visions in regions of bliss,
And make him forget that he waken'd in this;
Then farewell to the southland, the northland for me,
'Tis my country, wherever I'm list'ning to thee!
“And as I look up in thy beautiful eyes,
How can I but think of my own sunny skies?
While thy bright golden ringlets, in love-mazing twine,
Outrival the tendrils that curl round the vine!
Then thy form, in its exquisite lightness, recalls
The statues I've left in fair Italy's halls;
And can I regret them, while looking on thee?
No! no! thou art more than my country to me!
Then farewell to the southland, the northland for me,
'Tis my country, wherever I'm looking on thee!”
How can I but think of my own sunny skies?
While thy bright golden ringlets, in love-mazing twine,
Outrival the tendrils that curl round the vine!
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The statues I've left in fair Italy's halls;
And can I regret them, while looking on thee?
No! no! thou art more than my country to me!
Then farewell to the southland, the northland for me,
'Tis my country, wherever I'm looking on thee!”
| Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover | |