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THE MINSTREL OF PORTUGAL.
That was a sacrifice upon the shrine
Itself had reared! I will begin it now,
Like an old tale:—There was a Princess once,
More beautiful than Spring, when the warm look
Of Summer calls the blush upon her cheek,
The matchless Isabel of Portugal.
She moved in beauty, and where'er she went
Some heart did homage to her loveliness.
But there was one—a youth of lowly birth—
Who worshipped her!—I have heard many say
Love lives on hope; they knew not what they said:
Hope is Love's happiness, but not its life;—
How many hearts have nourished a vain flame
In silence and in secret, though they knew
They fed the scorching fire that would consume them!
Young Juan loved in veriest hopelessness!—
