Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/375



! sweet Isabelle, hark to my lute, As softly it plaineth o'er The story of one to whose lowly suit Thy heart shall beat no more! List to its tender plaints, my love, Sad as the accents of saints, my love, Who mortal sin deplore!

Awake from your slumber, Isabelle, wake, 'Tis sorrow that tunes these strings; A last farewell would the minstrel take Of her whose beauty he sings: The moon seems to weep on her way, my love, And, shrouded in clouds, seems to say, my love, No hope with the morning springs!

Deep on the breeze peals the hollow sound Of the dreary convent bell; Its walls, ere a few short hours wheel round, Will girdle my Isabelle!