Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/246

Rh

To blend in one each varying tone The midnight wind hath ever known. One saith that tale of battle brand Is all too rude for my weak hand; Another, too much sorrow flings Its pining cadence o'er my strings. So much to win, so much to lose, No marvel if I fear to choose. How can I tell of battle field, I never listed brand to wield; Or dark ambition's pathway try, In truth I never look'd so high; Or stern revenge, or hatred fell, Of what I know not, can I tell? I soar not on such lofty wings, My lute has not so many strings;