LXXXI.
He with the fullest pleasure overflows,
That ever happy lover did content:
But, lo! this time a mighty tempest rose,
And wasted flowers, and trees uptore and rent.
Not with the rage with which this whirlwind blows,
Joust warring winds, north, south, and east, unpent.
It seemed, as if in search of covering shade,
He, vainly wandering, through a desert strayed.
LXXXII.
Meanwhile the unhappy lover lost the dame
In that dim air, nor how he lost her, weets;
And, roving far and near, her beauteous name
Through every sounding wood and plain repeats.
And while, “oh wretched me!” is his exclaim,
“Who has to poison changed my promised sweets?”
He of his sovereign lady who with tears
Demands his aid, the lamentation hears.
LXXXIII.
Thither, whence comes the sound, he swiftly hies,
And toils, now here, now there, with labour sore:
Oh! what tormenting grief, to think his eyes
Cannot again the lovely rays explore!
—Lo! other voice from other quarter cries—
“Hope not on earth to enjoy the blessing more[13].”
At that alarming cry he woke, and found
Himself in tears of bitter sorrow drowned.
