“Thou art assured of her love: art thou not?” he said.
“I rather hold it in doubt,” answered Hildebrand.
“Thou art grievously in the wrong, trust me,” returned Don Rafaele. “Look on’t more cheerfully. The maiden lives not would refuse thee!”
“Speak on’t no more, I prithee,” said Hildebrand; “for it makes me sorrowful.”
“Let it not do that,” replied Don Rafaele. “Give me thine ear a while, and, if thou think’st ’twill disperse thy melancholy, I will straight sing thee a song.”
“An’ thou lovest me, let us have it,” returned Hildebrand. “An’ it be a love-song, ’twill soothe me right speedily.”
Don Rafaele, without making a reply, leaned back against the wainscot, and, after a moment’s consideration, sang a song which may be thus translated:—
SONG.
O! love is like a summer flower,
As fragrant and as fair;
And thus it flourishes an hour,
And braves the hostile air:
But, like a flower, its bloom will fade,
Its life is but a span;
And soon it shows the hapless maid
O! ’tis a mournful thing to see
The flowers of summer fade!
How more than mournful must it be
To view the blighted maid!
Then, let no thought of present joy
A future sorrow sow—
That bliss must surely have alloy
That is another’s woe.