Mute are the minstrels that sang of him.
The harp forgets its thrilling tone;
The brightest eyes of the land are dim,
For the pride of their aching sight is gone!
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
The sun refused to lend his light,
And clouds obscured the face of day;
The tiger's whelps prey'd day and night,2
For the lion of the forest was far away.
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
The gallant—graceful—young Chevalier,
Whose look is bonny as his heart is gay;
His sword in battle flashes death and fear,
While he hews through falling foes his way.
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
O'er his blushing cheeks his blue eyes shine,
Like dew drops glitt'ring on the rose's leaf;
Mars and Cupid all in him combine,
The blooming lover and the godlike chief.
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
