There is a wood, there is a cot,
There is a gentle river;
There is a home where I am not,
But where I would be ever.
And adown the green valley the meadows were fair,
And the breeze came to woo the young daffodils there.
There is a lip I have not press'd,
A heart yet coldly beating;
But true love's throb within that breast
Will wake at others' greeting.
And adown through the valley the morn shone so fair,
When the breeze gently kiss'd the young bud blushing there.
And thou wilt light thy taper cold
At some gay treacherous eye;
Its flame shall still thy soul enfold
When lovers' glance shall die!
And adown the green valley, while morn shone so fair,
The breeze sigh'd, and left the young bud weeping there!
carlos.
Woman loves not her true lover,
A treacherous lewdster best o'ersteps her grace!—
Another, Giulio: I could live in them—
They feed the soul, as doth ambrosia
The mighty gods.
giulio sings.
Let me rest mine head, lady,
On thy bended knee:
Every pulse to thine beats true;
I would 'twere so with thee.
Sing heigho!
Under the willow tree
My cheek will not harm thee,
Start not from thy rest——
carlos.
Cease!—I do remember me the ballad
Thou gavest yesterday. Upon my brain
So loud the music rings, this chaunt I hear not.—
Prithee again thy strings touch to the carol.
giulio.
Yet by your preference I know it not.
How name you the ballad?
carlos.
'Twas of the pilgrim, and his goodly benison.