Are very worthless. And that morn
Had Juan from his Inez borne
All woman's prettiness of scorn;
Had watched for her averted eye
In vain,—had seen a rival nigh
And smiled upon: he wildly swore
To look on the false one no more,
Who thus could trifle, thus could break
A fond heart for the triumph's sake.—
And yet she loved him,—oh how well
Let woman's own fond spirit tell.
When the warriors met in their high career,
Went not her heart along with his spear?
The dance seemed sad, and the festival dim,
If her hand was unclaimed by him;
Waked she her lute, if it breached not his name?
Lay she in dreams, but some thought of him came?
No flowers, no smiles, were on life's dull tide,
When Juan was not by his Inez' side.
And yet they parted! Still there clings
As earth-stain to the fairest things;
And love, that most delicious gift
Upon life's shrine of sorrow left,
Has its own share of suffering:
A shade falls from its radiant wing,
A spot steals o'er its sunny brow,
Fades the rose-lip's witching glow.
'Tis well,—for earth were too like heaven,
If length of life to love were given.
He has left the land of the chesnut and lime
For the cedar and rose of a southern clime,
With a pilgrim's vow and a soldier's brand,
To fight in the wars of the Holy Land.
No colours are placed on his helm beside,
No lady's scarf o'er his neck is tied,
A dark plume alone does young Juan wear:—
Look where warriors are thickest, that plume will be there.
