I.
Nay, fling back that veil,—'t is a shame to the sky
The sight of such beauty as thine to deny!
Nay, fling back that veil,—were it but to disclose
A cheek that is reddening to rival the rose.
II.
And yet thou art fair, my beloved one, how fair!
And thy young cheek is pale, save when blushes are there.
Sweet messengers springing, the rosy and fleet,
Thy heart's timid truths to surprise and repeat.
III.
Come, give me the cup; but how pale is the wine!
It is mocked by the light in those blue eyes of thine!
Those eyes that the midnight and morning unite,
Like the moonshine so soft, like the sunshine so bright.
IV.
They say that the stars, which are shining above,
Can tell of man's glory, can tell of man's love;
But I ask not the love that is writ in the skies,
So long as I read of thy heart in thine eyes.
V.
Ah! give me one moment that little white hand;
Its least wave commandeth where'er I command;
Oh! fair are the lilies of Bourbon's proud line—
But they are not so fair as this white hand of thine.
VI.
The trumpet soon summons the soldier from rest,
He has brief while to gaze on the face he loves best;
My foot in the stirrup, my hand on my sword,
I must live on a look, I must woo with a word.
VII.
My idol, farewell!—But ah! give me to wear
One curl from thy ringlets of long golden hair;
It will cheer me when lonely, will lead me in war,
And in death will be found next the heart of Navarre.