I need not say how sweet the accents fell,
When first Orlando told his tale of love—
How tender was the blush that welcom'd it;
Nor need I tell how happy were the hours
That pass'd away in love's enchanted dreams;
'Twas all the bard e'er feign'd, or young hearts felt,
Of joys, like spring days, bright and fugitive.
But not long in the myrtle bowers of bliss
The warrior may remain; he may not see
His laurels pine in shade, or the deep stain
Of rust upon his sword. Again the sound
Of arms recall'd Orlando to the field;
And he will go: not Adelaide's, the love
That would enchain him to its witchery—
No; she would bid her lover from her arms,
E'en tho' her heart were breaking; point to fame,
Albeit 'twere more than death unto her soul!
