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TALE OF THE 14TH CENTURY.
263
That hour, whate'er our future lot,
That first fond grief, is ne'er forgot!
Such was the pang of Bertha's heart,
The thought, that bade the tear-drop start;
And Osbert by her side,
Heard the deep sigh whose bursting swell,
Nature's fond struggle told too well,
And days of future bliss pourtrayed,
And love's own eloquence essayed,
To soothe his plighted bride!
Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells,
In that sweet land to which they fly;
The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells
Of blooming Italy.
For he had roved a pilgrim there,
And gazed on many a spot so fair,
It seemed like some enchanted grove,
Where only peace, and joy, and love,
Those exiles of the world, might rove,
And breathe its heavenly air;
