MIRABEAU BUONAPARTE LAMAR
THE DAUGHTER OF MENDOZA
O lend to me, sweet nightingale,
Your music by the fountains!
And lend to me your cadences,
O river of the mountains!
That I may sing my gay brunette,
A diamond spark in coral set,
Gem for a prince's coronet –
The daughter of Mendoza.
How brilliant is the morning star!
The evening star how tender!
The light of both is in her eye,
Their softness and their splendor.
But for the lash that shades their light,
They are too dazzling for the sight;
And when she shuts them, all is night-
The daughter of Mendoza.
O! ever bright and beauteous one,
Bewildering and beguiling,
The lute is in thy silvery tones,
The rainbow in thy smiling.
And thine is, too, o'er hill and dell,
The bounding of the young gazelle,
The arrow's flight and ocean's swell
Sweet daughter of Mendoza !
What though, perchance, we meet no more?
What though too soon we sever?
Thy form will float like emerald light
Before my vision ever.
For who can see and then forget
The glories of my gay brunette?
Thou art too bright a star to set-
Sweet daughter of Mendoza!
From the vale, what music ringing,
Fills the bosom of the night;
On the sense, entrancèd, flinging
Spells of witchery and delight!
O'er magnolia, lime and cedar,
From yon locust-top, it swells,
Like the chant of serenader,
Or the rhymes of silver bells!
Listen! dearest, listen to it!
Sweeter sounds were never heard!
'Tis the song of that wild poet
Mime and minstrel - Mocking Bird.
See him, swinging in his glory,
On yon topmost bending limb!
Carolling his amorous story,
Like some wild crusader's hymn!
Now it faints in tones delicious
As the first low vow of love!
Now it bursts in swells capricious,
All the moonlit vale above!
Listen! dearest, etc.
Why is't thus, this sylvan Petrarch
Pours all night his serenade?
'Tis for some proud woodland Laura,
His sad sonnets all are made!
But he changes now his measure
Gladness bubbling from his mouth-
Jest, and gibe, and mimic pleasure—
Winged Anacreon of the South!
Listen! dearest, etc.
Bird of music, wit and gladness,
Troubadour of sunny climes,
Disenchanter of all sadness,-
Would thine art were in my rhymes.
O'er the heart that's beating by me,
I would weave a spell divine;
Is there aught she could deny me,
Drinking in such strains as thine?
Listen! dearest, etc.
The blue-bird is whistling in Hillibee grove,
His mate is repeating the tale of his love,
But never that song,
As its notes fleet along,
So sweet and so soft in its raptures can be,
As thy low whispered words, young chieftain, to me.
Deep down in the dell is a clear crystal stream,
Terra-re! Terra-re!
Where, scattered like stars, the white pebbles gleam,
But deep in my breast,
Sweet thoughts are at rest,
No eye but my own in their beauty shall see;
They are dreams, happy dreams, young chieftain, of thee.
The honey-bud blooms when the spring-time is green,
Terra-re! Terra-re!
And the fawn with the roe, on the hill-top is seen,
But 'tis spring all the year,
When my loved-one is near,
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