THE MINSTREL OF PORTUGAL.
209
Is immortality! The heart whose beat
Is echoed by the lyre, will have its griefs,
Its tenderness, remembered, when each pulse
Has long been cold and still. Some pitied him,
And others marvelled, half in mockery;
They little knew what pride love ever has
In self-devotedness. The Princess heard
Of her pale lover; but none ever knew
Her secret thoughts: she heard it silently.
It could not be but woman's heart must feel
Such fond and faithful homage!—But some deemed
Even such timid worship was not meet
For royalty. They bade the youth depart,
And the King sent him gold; he turned away,
And would not look upon the glittering treasure—
And then they banished him! He heard them say
P
