C LOTILDA ! many hearts are light,
— And many lips dissemble;
But I am thine till priests shall fight,
— Or Caeur de Lion tremble! —
Hath Jerome burned his rosary,
— Or Richard shrunk from slaughter?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But till you mean your hopes to die,
— Engrave them not in water!

Sweet Ida, on my lonely way
— Those tears I will remember,
Till icicles shall cling to May,
— Or roses to December! —
Are snow-wreaths bound on Summer's brow?
— Is drowsy Winter waking?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But lances, and a lover's vow,
— Were only made for breaking.

Lenora, I am faithful still,
— By all the saints that listen,
Till this warm heart shall cease to thrill,
— Or these wild veins to glisten! —
This bosom, — is its pulse less high?
— Or sleeps the stream within it?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But lovers find eternity
— In less than half a minute.

And thus to thee I swear to-night,
— By thine own lips and tresses,
That I will take no further flight,
— Nor break again my jesses:
And wilt thou trust the faith I vowed,
— And dream in spite of warning?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But go and lure the midnight cloud,
— Or chain the mist of morning.

These words of mine, so false and bland,
— Forget that they were spoken!
The ring is on thy radiant hand, —
— Dash down the faithless token!
And will they say that Beauty sinned,
— That Woman turned a rover?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But lover's vows are like the wind,
— And Vidal is a Lover!