I

Unto her fragrant face and hair,-- As some wild-bee unto a rose, That blooms in splendid beauty there Within the South,--my longing goes: My longing, that is overfain To call her mine, but all in vain; Since jealous Death, as each one knows, Is guardian of La belle Heléne; Of her whose face is very fair-- To my despair, Ah, belle Heléne.