Away the startled pheasant flies,
With lazy movement of his wings.
Borne was my heart's lord from my eyes;--
What pain the separation brings!
The pheasant, though no more in view,
His cry, below, above, forth sends.
Alas! my princely lord, 'tis you--
Your absence, that my bosom rends.
At sun and moon I sit and gaze,
In converse with my troubled heart.
Far, far from me my husband stays!
When will he come to heal its smart?
Ye princely men who with him mate,
Say, mark ye not his virtuous way.
His rule is--covet nought, none hate;--
How can his steps from goodness stray?