 | Redwald |  |
He ceas'd—a flush of anxious hope was spread
O'er Ivan's brow—his eyes in trembling dread
He dar'd not raise, the lovely form to view,
Which shrinking from his love, his fancy drew:—
“Hold—hold! my father, oh, my friend!” he cry'd,
“Too well I feel she ne'er can be my bride;
“I dare not hope it, and resign the hand
“Possess'd but by a dying sire's command!”
O'er Ivan's brow—his eyes in trembling dread
He dar'd not raise, the lovely form to view,
Which shrinking from his love, his fancy drew:—
“Hold—hold! my father, oh, my friend!” he cry'd,
“Too well I feel she ne'er can be my bride;
“I dare not hope it, and resign the hand
“Possess'd but by a dying sire's command!”
| Redwald | |