Andrea of Hungary, and Giovanna of Naples (Classic Reprint)
My verse was for thine eyes alone,
Alone by them was it repaid:
And stil thine ear records the tone
Of thy grey minstrel, thoughtful maid!
Amid the pomps of regal state,
Where thou, O Rose! art call'd to move,
Thee only Virtue can elate,
She only guide thy steps to Love.
Sometimes, when dark is each saloon,
Dark every lamp that crown'd the Seine,
Memory hangs low Amalfi's moon
And lights thee o'er Salerno's plain,
And onward, where Giovanna bore
Keen anguish from envenom'd tongues:
Her fame my pages shall restore,
Thy pity shall requite her wrongs.
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