138
TO VICTOIRE, ON HER MARRIAGE.
I sit down in mine English land,
Mine English hearth beside;
And thou, to one I never knew,
Art plighted for a bride.
It will not wrong thy present joy,
With by-gone days to wend;
Nor wrongeth it mine English hearth,
To love my Gallic friend.
Bind, bind the wreath! the slender ring
Thy wedded finger press!
May he who calls thy love his own,
Call so thine happiness!
Be he Terpander to thine heart,
And string fresh strings of gold,
Which may out-give new melodies,
But never mar the old!
