Page:Literary Souvenir 1835.pdf/4

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V. Ah! give me one moment that little white hand; Its least wave commandeth where'er I command; Oh! fair are the lilies of Bourbon's proud line— But they are not so fair as this white hand of thine.

VI. The trumpet soon summons the soldier from rest, He has brief while to gaze on the face he loves best; My foot in the stirrup, my hand on my sword, I must live on a look, I must woo with a word.

VII. My idol, farewell!—But ah! give me to wear One curl from thy ringlets of long golden hair; It will cheer me when lonely, will lead me in war, And in death will be found next the heart of Navarre.