178
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Friends in their very love unjust,
Or faithless to our utmost trust;
Or fortune's gifts, to win so hard;
Or fame, that is its own reward
Or has no other, and is worn
Mid envy, falsehood, hate, and scorn?
All these ills had that young bard known,
And they had laid his funeral stone.
Slowly and sad the numbers pass'd,
As thus the minstrel sung his last.
THE ROSE:
THE ITALIAN MINSTREL'S TALE.
The Count Gonfali held a feast that night,
And colour'd lamps sent forth their odorous light
