POOR Lisa! Oft her folly has been sung, Of how she saw, and needs must love, a king, And make him know that wistful, tender thing -- Her little loyal heart -- by minstrel tongue; And how she felt herself more proudly blest Than many a bride, long wooed and triumphing, Who on her finger wears the plighted ring, And lays her safe head on a husband's breast: -- Because her dear king hearkened to the bard, And royally came once to Lisa's cot And kissed her brow: -- of how she deemed her lot Rich at that hour beyond all dreamt reward! There the tale ends: it suits the singer not To tell of Lisa's weeping afterward. |