In far-off England, years ago,
There dwelt a wise old sage
Who, from the book of future years
could tare for you a page
One day there came into his home
A youth of noble birth,
who asked that he'd unfold to him
His mission on the earth.
"Lord Allsmere," spoke the rev'rend sage,
"This day is born for you
A wife, in far-off Italy,
For whom, one day, you'll sue,
Your bride is born of humble birth,
No gold or lands has she;
But you will love her just the same,
However poor she be."
"What!--I? How dare you say these things
To me, Lord Allsmere's heir!
take a, beggar for my wife,
With me my wealth to share?
Ha! Ha! A fool you think me then.
I'll let my chances slip,
And leave the wealth of all the land
To kiss a pauper's lip!"
You'll see, young man," the sage replied,
"That all I've said is true,
In Venice, near the riverside
27A bride is born for you.
You'll know her by a blood-red mark
That stains her slender arm;
Upon that mark a leaf is traced,
Quite like a stately palm."
"I'll die before I'll bring such shame
Upon my noble home,
I'll seek this child, and murder her,
And then o'er seas I'll roam.
'Tis well you've told me where she bides;
I'll leave England to-night.
Farewell, old man, you'll see that I
Will make this thing allright."
Ah, man! Thou egotist,--how vain
To fight against thy fate;
Know thou the laws if destiny
Are powerful and great!
And its decrees obscured trolls thee
Thou trav'lest in the night!
Bide thou with peace, thou'it reach thy goal
Without the aid of light.