_Lover_. Aye, by my word! As her wail is dear to the shadow bird, Whose haunt is low in yon Linden glen, I love the tale of my grievous pain. The bird of the shadow will wail her wail-- Come hither, sweet Lady, and list my tale; No word of my lip shall wound thine ear. _Leon_. I will list thy story--but O, _not here!_ This lattice!--Hast thou---- _Lover_. Forgotten?--no. Here--erst--when the moon--a bended bow-- Rained its ray-arrows on wave and air, And their jewelled points illumed thy hair, I saw thy lips part, and heard thee say, Thou wouldst love me well till thy dying day. I am happy!--But Lady, thou wilt not blame This lip that sad words--sad words--brim o'er At thought of one whom I may not name. Wilt thou list my dark story, sweet Leonore? _Leon_. I hear thee. _Lover_. The stars and the white-armed moon Are bright in heaven; and the breath of June In the faint wind liveth. On such a night, With the sky as blue, with the moon as bright, I roved with one by a lonely shore; _I have loved another_, sweet Leonore! _Leon_. I hear thee! _Lover_. Wan were the brow and cheek Of her whose name I may not speak; And gentle the flow of her long fair hair; And her azure eye had a beauty rare. I won that girl to my doting heart: But a rival came, and his fiendish art Fell witheringly--as falls the dew On Brandon night. Her kinsman knew That 'twas a sinful and deadly stain-- This last wild love--so not again Met they--the lovers--in peace or pain! --He who had won by his fiendish art Died mad; and _she_ of a broken heart. {110} They made her a grave by our love's lone shore, And I laughed in strange mirth, sweet Leonore. _Leon_. Alas! _Lover_. Yet a burning and restless pain Lived evermo' at my heart and brain. What balm sought I?--Forgetfulness, Ah!--wo is me! I had none to bless My desolate heart: no soothing tone To cheer my spirit seared and lone: No hand of love to clasp mine own. And anguish--great anguish dogged my step, Till I did swear me that a fiend Spake in mine ear with a hissing lip. I bared my brow to the haunted wind On wintry hills; and then in fear Would seek my couch most lone and drear, And mutter a name for the dead to hear. And in my mad dreams, sweet Leonore, I shuddered and moaned--"Pain evermore!" _Leon_. Alas! _Lover_. But time wore fleetly on, And the lines were less deep on my forehead wan. I sought to bury my wrongs in wine; And I sought in the crowd where star-eyes shine For my thwarted heart a second shrine:-- Yet _this_ in vain! I found it not, For naught from the book of Time mote blot The one black page, and Memory ever Dwelt, till my temples throbbed with fever, On that stained page and its letters wild. _Leon_. And yet thou lovedst!