Wilt thou fly from the world?  It hath wealth for the vain;
     But Love breaks his bond when there’s gold in the chain;
     Wilt thou fly from the world?  It hath courts for the proud;—­
     But Love, born in caves, pines to death in the crowd. 
     Were this bosom thy world, dearest one,
     Thy world could not fail to be bright;
     For thou shouldst thyself be its sun,
     And what spot could be dim in thy light—­
     Bel’ amie, bel’ amie, bel’ amie?

     3.

     The rich and the great woo thee dearest; and poor,
     Though his fathers were princes, thy young Troubadour! 
     But his heart never quail’d save to thee, his adored,—­
     There’s no guile in his lute, and no stain on his sword. 
     Ah, I reck not what sorrows I know,
     Could I still on thy solace confide;
     And I care not, though earth be my foe,
     If thy soft heart be found by my side,—­
     Bel’ amie, bel’ amie, bel’ amie!

     4.

     The maiden she blush’d, and the maiden she sighed,
     Not a cloud in the sky, not a gale on the tide;
     But though tempest had raged on the wave and the wind,
     That castle, methinks, had been still left behind! 
     Sweet lily, though bow’d by the blast,
     (To this bosom transplanted) since then,
     Wouldst thou change, could we call the past,
     To the rock from thy garden again—­
     Bel’ amie, bel’ amie, bel’ amie?

Thus they alternated the time with converse and song, as the wooded hills threw their sharp, long shadows over the sea; while from many a mound of waking flowers, and many a copse of citron and orange, relieved by the dark and solemn aloe, stole the summer breeze, laden with mingled odours; and, over the seas, coloured by the slow-fading hues of purple and rose, that the sun had long bequeathed to the twilight, flitted the gay fireflies that sparkle along that enchanted coast.  At length, the moon slowly rose above the dark forest-steeps, gleaming on the gay pavilion and glittering pennon of Montreal,—­on the verdant sward,—­the polished mail of the soldiers, stretched on the grass in various groups, half-shaded by oaks and cypress, and the war-steeds grazing peaceably together—­a wild mixture of the Pastoral and the Iron time.

Adrian, reluctantly reminded of his journey, rose to depart.

“I fear,” said he to Adeline, “that I have already detained you too late in the night air:  but selfishness is little considerate.”

“Nay, you see we are prudent,” said Adeline, pointing to Montreal’s mantle, which his provident hand had long since drawn around her form; “but if you must part, farewell, and success attend you!”

“We may meet again, I trust,” said Adrian.

Adeline sighed gently; and the Colonna, gazing on her face by the moonlight, to which it was slightly raised, was painfully struck by its almost transparent delicacy.  Moved by his compassion, ere he mounted his steed, he drew Montreal aside,—­“Forgive me if I seem presumptuous,” said he; “but to one so noble this wild life is scarce a fitting career.  I know that, in our time, War consecrates all his children; but surely a settled rank in the court of the Emperor, or an honourable reconciliation with your knightly brethren, were better—­”