45
TO MORVYTH,
WHEN SHE MARRIED HUNCHBACK.
Too long I’ve loved the fickle maid,
My love is turned to grief and pain;
In vain delusive hopes I stray’d,
Through days that ne’er will dawn again;
And she, in beauty like the dawn,
From me has now her heart withdrawn!
A constant suitor—on her ear
My sweetest melodies I pour’d;
Where’er she wander’d I was near;
For her whose face my soul ador’d
My wealth I madly spent in wine,
And gorgeous jewels of the mine.
I deck’d her arms with lovely chains,
With bracelets wove of slender gold;
I sang her charms in varied strains,
Her praise to every minstrel told:
The bards of distant Keri know
That she is spotless as the snow!
These proofs of love I hoped might bind
My Morvyth to be ever true:
Alas! to deep despair consign’d,
My bosom’s blighted hopes I rue,
And the base craft that gave her charms,
Oh, anguish! to another’s arms!
