Beside thee sits thy young and lovely bride—
Who does not envy thee so fair a prize;
The bard is telling of thy glorious deeds,
And many a lady's eye is bent on thee.
The voice of pleasure is not heard; in vain
The goblet sparkles, and the song is breathed;
Even beauty's smile glanced unregarded by!
Came not the days long past upon thy soul,
Weighing the spirit down, like fearful forms,
The dreary shapes that crowd a fever'd dream?
He thought on Adelaide;—oh! where was she?
Her place was vacant, and all seemed so strange!
She was the last fair scion of her race;
The lofty pillars of proud Ethlin's line
Were broken all; and now another lord
Bore sway, in that too well remember'd hall.
They spoke of him, the late chief of these towers;
He too had pass'd unto his place of rest.
And then, with kindling cheek, Orlando heard
