 | Orta-undis, and other poems |  |
12
QUÆ CARIOR?
Behold, nor lands nor gold have I,
Yet great my riches are:
My treasure stands without a guard,
My door without a bar.
Ye who would wealthy live and die,
Go seek a love like this:
Quis pudor desiderio
Tam cari capitis?
Yet great my riches are:
My treasure stands without a guard,
My door without a bar.
Ye who would wealthy live and die,
Go seek a love like this:
Quis pudor desiderio
Tam cari capitis?
The eyes, the locks, the lips, the smile,
Not these my love retain.
A Venus trusting in her charms
Assails my breast in vain.
The soul serene that taper-like
Burns quietly within;
The gentle kindliness of heart
And purity from sin.
Not these my love retain.
A Venus trusting in her charms
Assails my breast in vain.
13
Burns quietly within;
The gentle kindliness of heart
And purity from sin.
The blood that flushes in her cheek,
Flows in my every vein;
The good old blood of ancient times
Without reproach or stain!
Right loth am I to own our Sires,
Stout Huguenots of yore,
From Anjou, Maine, or Languedoc,
So bright a jewel bore.
Flows in my every vein;
The good old blood of ancient times
Without reproach or stain!
Right loth am I to own our Sires,
Stout Huguenots of yore,
From Anjou, Maine, or Languedoc,
So bright a jewel bore.
I love her arm to lean on mine
To guide her steps aright;
I love her eyes to speak to me
Affection pure and bright.
And proud within my heart am I
That, come what may, the arm
On which she rests is strong enough
To shelter her from harm.
To guide her steps aright;
I love her eyes to speak to me
Affection pure and bright.
And proud within my heart am I
That, come what may, the arm
On which she rests is strong enough
To shelter her from harm.
14
She tells me all her little joys,
Her troubles and her fears,
I smile with her, I share her grief,
I kiss away her tears.
And thus we journey hand in hand
Along this path of ours:
The thorns we crush beneath our feet,
Our bosoms hold the flowers.
Her troubles and her fears,
I smile with her, I share her grief,
I kiss away her tears.
And thus we journey hand in hand
Along this path of ours:
The thorns we crush beneath our feet,
Our bosoms hold the flowers.
1844.
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