Classic Poem

The order came, to march. On that last eve
There was a banquet in Valverde's halls,
The city's noblest name. The tapestried walls,
Shower'd light on all the loveliest of the land,
On slender, waving shapes, like flow'rets fann'd
Into new grace by every breeze that blows.
The night flew on, to dance, and lover's talk,
And the light wit that wins the ready smile.
But love's true spirit seeks the secret walk,
And many a pair by garden-bower, and rill,
Wander'd in dreams that one poor hour must sever,
Sweet pain, that balms the heart yet makes it bleed;
By morn the lover must be on his steed;
That parting look might be their last, — for ever!