Analysis of Romance

Maiden, listen! thy hunter's horn—
Thrice has the wind its echo borne;
Should not this our moment of meeting be?
Hast thou no answer, maiden, for me?
Ah, yes, I can hear thy silvery feet,
Like the lute's music, light and sweet;
Soft on the air comes the breath of thy sigh,
As the odours that tell when the Spring hours are nigh.
Invisible, still I should feel thou wert near,
Be conscious that something was by me most dear.
Oh, haste thee, beloved, I've built thee a bower,
Not like the halls of thy father's tower—
Where the banners are sweeping o'er helm and o'er plume,
And crimson and gold clothe each stately room—
Where censers are burning with incense and light—
Where winecups of silver are foaming and bright—
Where an hundred minstrels sing thee to sleep—
While an hundred knights watch o'er those slumbers keep—
But my bower is built by an old oak tree,
With an ivy and woodbine canopy;
And the turf beneath is thickly set
With primrose, lily, and violet.
The nightingale, love, shall thy minstrel be;
And my two dark hounds shall be guards for thee;
And for crystal vases of eastern perfume,
The wild rose in the freshness of morning shall bloom;
And more than all, thou shalt have for thy slave
A heart that will beat for thee till in the grave.