Whither is all my joy now gone?
Wherefore should fade
The courage high that filled my heart?
Ah! sorrow doth one’s peace invade!
Yet willingly alone would I
The sorrow bear, but well I know
He longing would to me draw nigh.
Alas! too seldom doth he come,
Too long delays;
And now I shiver as with cold,
Now glow as with the fire’s fierce blaze.
Schionatulander warms my heart
As Salamander feels the glow.
That Agremontin doth impart.”
“Oh, woe! thy speech is far too wise,”
The Queen replied.
“Am I to thee betrayed? I fear
The Frenchwoman her power hath tried
O’er thee, through anger unto me;
Anflisa’s words are on thy lips,
For they are far too old for thee.
Schionatulander is a prince
From failings free!
But yet his kingdom or his rank
By him assumed will never be,
Since he, alas! thy love hath sought;
If the proud Queen Anflisa’s wrath
Hath not on me been fully wrought.
For he was given her when he left
His mother’s breast
Did malice not the counsel give
That brings to thee such sore unrest?
But joy may round ye both yet play;
And if he counts thee truly fair,
Let not thy beauty pass away.
Through love to him let once again
Thy beauty glow;
The colour in thy cheeks and eyes
Be such as youthful years should show:
If lightly thus thy looks can fade,
Thou hast had too short time for joy,
Too many cares are on thee laid.
Still if the youthful Dauphin hath
So marred thy joy,
He yet can give thee joy again;
For love and kindness by the boy
Have been inherited, I ween,
From mother fair and noble sire,
And kinswoman Schoiette the queen.
That thou so early cam’st to love,
Must I complain;
Thou wilt the grief Mahaute bore
For Gurzgri brave, live o’er again;
Her eyes confessed the secret wound,
Whilst victor he in far-off lands
Fresh trophies on his helmet bound.
To Schionatulander will praise
Ascend on high,
He comes of race to whom fair fame
Shall none e’er grudge or e’er deny,
But it shall far and wide increase;
Then let him chase thy grief away,
And bring instead blest joy and peace.
If at his glance sweet happy thoughts
Thy heart should yield,
I feel no wonder nor surprise.
How well he looks with shining shield,
Whilst round a firecloud seemed to glow,
Of sparks that fly from crested helms,
As his sharp sword deals out each blow.