'Twas I who with deft fingers with gold lace overlaid
The dazzling robes of flowery tint of velvet and brocade.
And sometimes would I take my lute and play for dancers there;
And sometimes trust my own weak voice in some romantic air;
But now, this moment, I retain but one, one mournful art--
To weep, to mourn the banishment that ever grieves my heart.
And since 'tis thou alone whose bread, whose roof my life didst save,
I weep the bitterest tears of all because I am a slave!
Yet wouldst thou deign, O lady dear, to make more light to me
The hours I pass beneath thy roof, in dark captivity,--