There would be rescue if this were not so.
Thou’rt at the chase, thou’rt at the festive board,
Thou’rt where the red wine free and high is pour’d,
Thou’rt where the dancers meet! A magic glass
Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass,
Flushing it o’er with pomp from bower and hall:
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all—
Thine! What dost thou amidst the bright and fair,
Whispering light words, and mocking my despair?
It is not well of thee! My love was more