Vedi tu dove il rio Lambendo un mirto va, Là del riposo mio La pietra surgerà. Il passero amoroso, E il nobile usignuol Entro quel mirto ombroso Raccoglieranno il vol. Vieni, diletta Elvira, A quella tomba vien, E sulla muta lira, Appoggia il bianco sen. Su quella bruna pietra, Le tortore verran, E intorno alia mia cetra, Il nido intrecieran. E ogni anno, il di che offendere M'osasti tu infedel, Faro la su discendere La folgore del ciel. Odi d'un uom che muore Odi l'estremo suon Questo appassito fiore Ti lascio, Elvira, in don Quanto prezioso ei sia Saper tu il devi appien Il di che fosti mia, Te l'involai dal sen. Simbolo allor d'affetto Or pegno di dolor Torno a posarti in petto Quest' appassito fior. E avrai nel cuor scolpito Se crudo il cor non è, Come ti fu rapito, Come fu reso a te.--(_S. Radael._)* * [Lo! where the passing stream laps round the myrtle-tree, raise there the stone of my resting-place. The amorous sparrow and the noble nightingale within the shade of that myrtle will rest from flight. Come, beloved Elvira, come to that tomb and press my mute lyre to your white bosom. Turtles shall perch on that dark stone and will twine their nest about my harp. And every year on the day when you did dare cruelly betray me, on this spot will I make the lightning of heaven descend. Listen, listen to the last utterances of a dying man. This faded flower, Elvira, is the gift I leave you. How precious it is you must know full well: from your bosom I stole it the day you became mine. Then it was a symbol of love; now as a pledge of suffering I will put it back in your bosom--this faded flower. And you shall have engraved on your heart, if a woman's heart you have, how it was snatched from you, how it was returned.] [8] "Poor wretch, how many sweet thoughts, what constancy brought him to his last hour. He was fair and beautiful and gentle of countenance, only a noble scar cut through one of his eyebrows." [Pg 112] CHAPTER XXXII OF INTIMATE INTERCOURSE The greatest happiness that love can give--'tis first joining your hand to the hand of a woman you love. The happiness of gallantry is quite otherwise--far more real, and far more subject to ridicule. In passion-love intimate intercourse is not so much perfect delight itself, as the last step towards it. But how depict a delight, which leaves no memories behind?