Effusions of Love from Chatelar to Mary, Queen of Scotland Translated from a Gallic Manuscript, in the Scotch College at Paris. Interspersed with songs, sonnets, and notes explanatory, by the translator [i.e. S. W. H. Ireland]. To which is added, historical fragments, poetry, and remains of the amours, of that unfortunate Princess |
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BALLAD.
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 | Effusions of Love from Chatelar to Mary, Queen of Scotland |  |
118
BALLAD.
[My pulse is languid, all my senses die]
My pulse is languid, all my senses die;
My heart o'erflows, I weep, yet know not why—
Ah! sure my heart's the chronicle of love:
My eyes transfix'd forget their wonted rest;
My mind by contrite pray'r seeks to be blest—
But all in vain I turn my gaze above.
My heart o'erflows, I weep, yet know not why—
Ah! sure my heart's the chronicle of love:
119
My mind by contrite pray'r seeks to be blest—
But all in vain I turn my gaze above.
Now rapid beats my pulse, my senses fire;
My heart's in flames, and tears yield to desire:
'Tis love who traces with his raging dart
The form, the majesty, and every grace,
That shines, Oh queen! from thy celestial face,
Upon the tablet of my bleeding heart.
My heart's in flames, and tears yield to desire:
'Tis love who traces with his raging dart
The form, the majesty, and every grace,
That shines, Oh queen! from thy celestial face,
Upon the tablet of my bleeding heart.
Now fury rages, and my throbbing brain
Would court fell madness to alleviate pain—
Come, Mary, let the drop of feeling flow:
Again 'tis o'er, the raging fever dies,
And nought remains but sadness, tears, and sighs—
I'm left the solitary child of woe.
Would court fell madness to alleviate pain—
Come, Mary, let the drop of feeling flow:
Again 'tis o'er, the raging fever dies,
And nought remains but sadness, tears, and sighs—
I'm left the solitary child of woe.
| Effusions of Love from Chatelar to Mary, Queen of Scotland | |