VIII

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VIII

My poor Vladimir, bitter tears

Thee but a little space bewept,

Faithless, alas! thy maid appears,

Nor true unto her sorrow kept.

Another could her heart engage,

Another could her woe assuage

By flattery and lover’s art⁠—

A lancer captivates her heart!

A lancer her soul dotes upon:

Before the altar, lo! the pair,

Mark ye with what a modest air

She bows her head beneath the crown;

Behold her downcast eyes which glow,

Her lips where light smiles come and go!