We want not now thy Moon and Star,
In pensive beauty shrin'd afar,
We want not now thy pearly dew
To dim our falchion's blood-red hue,
Thy lonely breath thus passing by,
Like Beauty's whispered, farewell-sigh:
Go—hie thee hence!—where Rocnabad,
With murmuring waters wildly glad,
Doth woo thy stars to silver rest,
Upon its gently-heaving breast,
Or, where soon as the sun hath set,
And dome, kiosk and minaret
Glow with thy pale moon's gentler beam,
Like the bright limnings of some dream,
The lover gayly tunes his lay—
The rosy bow'rs of Mosellay!
We want thee not, the brightest flood,
The fiery sun can ever shed,
Must blaze o'er warrior's deeds of blood,
And light him on whene'er he tread,
The field where foe-men fierce and brave,
Meet, slay, or win a bloody grave!"
At this point the poem reaches its dramatic climax, and is full of fine feeling for the incidents related. The besieged monarch, the troubadour of the first canto, knows his doom, and goes to break it to his love:—
Oh! hast thou conquer'd—have they fled,
And is he come,—and are they dead?
My God—but why that hueless cheek,
Must Victory thus to true Love speak!
Oh! tell me, for thy tale must be
Of Joy since thou art come to me!
For fearful visions in my sleep,
Have made me shudder, shriek, and weep!
