THE MINSTREL OF PORTUGAL.
205
The dew is not yet on their purple leaves,
Warm with the sun's last kiss—sit here, dear love!
This chesnut be our canopy. Look up
Towards the beautiful heaven! the fair moon
Is shining timidly, like a young queen
Who fears to claim her full authority:
The stars shine in her presence; o'er the sky
A few light clouds are wandering, like the fears
That even happy love must know; the air
Is full of perfume and most musical,
Although no other sounds are on the gale
Than the soft falling of the mountain rill,
Or waving of the leaves. 'Tis just the time
For legend of romance, and, dearest, now
I have one framed for thee: it is of love,
Most perfect love, and of a faithful heart
