The third one laugh’d, and her eyes gleam’d bright, As the sword from the scabbard drew she; On the bare sword leaning, she gazed on the knight, And heartfelt pleasure knew she. The fourth one danced both here and there, And breath’d from her inmost bosom: “O would that I thy mistress were, “Thou lovely mortal blossom!” The fifth her kisses with passionate strength On the hand of the knight kept planting; The sixth one tarried, and kissed at length His lips and his cheeks enchanting. The knight was wise, and far too discreet To open his eyes midst such blisses; He let the fair nymphs in the moonlight sweet Continue their loving kisses. 12. BERTRAND DE BORN. A noble pride on every feature, His forehead stamp’d with thought mature, He could subdue each mortal creature, Bertrand de Born, the troubadour. How wondrously his sweet notes caught her, Plantagenet the Lion’s queen! Both sons as well as lovely daughter He sang into his net, I ween. The father too he fool’d discreetly! Hush’d was the monarch’s wrath and scorn On hearing him discourse so sweetly, The troubadour, Bertrand de Born. 13. SPRING. The waters glisten and merrily glide,-- How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour! The shepherdess sits by the streamlet’s side, And twines her garlands so tender. All nature is budding with fragrant perfume, How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour! The shepherdess sighs from her heart: “O to whom “Shall I my garlands surrender?” A horseman is riding beside the clear brook, A kindly greeting he utters; The shepherdess views him with sorrowful look, The plume in his hat gaily flutters. She weeps and into the gliding waves flings Her flowery garlands so tender; Of kisses and love the nightingale sings-- How lovely is love midst spring’s splendour! 14. ALI BEY. Ali Bey, the true Faith’s hero, Happy lies in maids’ embraces; Allah granteth him a foretaste Here on earth of heavenly rapture. Odalisques, as fair as houris, Like gazelles in every motion-- While the first his beard is curling, See, the second smoothes his forehead. And the third the lute is playing, Singing, dancing, and with laughter Kissing him upon his bosom, Where the flames of bliss are glowing. But the trumpets of a sudden Sound outside, the swords are rattling, Calls to arms, and shots of muskets-- Lord, the Franks are marching on us! And the hero mounts his war-steed, Joins the fight, but seems still dreaming; For he fancies he is lying As before in maids’ embraces. Whilst the heads of the invaders He is cutting off by dozens, He is smiling like a lover, Yes, he softly smiles and gently. 15. PSYCHE.