Page:The Siege of Valencia.pdf/170

166

Stay yet awhile. A purer air doth rove Here through the myrtles whispering, and the limes, And shaking sweetness from the orange boughs, Than waits you in the city.

There are those In their last need, and on their bed of death, At which no hand doth minister but mine That wait me in the city. Let us hence.

You have been wont to love the music made By founts, and rustling foliage, and soft winds, Breathing of citron-groves. And will you turn From these to scenes of death?

To me the voice Of summer, whispering through young flowers and leaves