The Victor Maiden

My heart is o'erladen with sorrow and strife —
The love of a maiden has wounded my life;
Astray among strangers afar I have been,
But the peer of that dear one I never have seen.

Her beauty so rare is — to love her is best!
The snow not so fair is; how swan-like her breast!
Her words' tuneful measure all music's above —
It wounds me with pleasure the voice of my Love!

Her curls in their clusters are rippled and rolled,
The sheen of their lustre's like billowy gold;
So radiant her glances I faint with delight, —
For beauty entrances and great is love's might!

How pure is her brow and how fair her cheek glows
With the whiteness of snow and a blush of the rose!
Her breast is a bower of blossoming joy —
More beauteous that flower than was Helen of Troy.

Her soft taper ringers are skilful as fair,
How graceful she lingers o'er broideries rare!
As swiftly she sketches from lake and from land,
How featly she fetches each bird at command!

Though long, proud, and stately, from women afar,
'Mid chiefs gay and great lay my revel and war,
To this Victor I yield me to serve as love's slave,
For fight cannot shield me, and flight cannot save!