Cold, as the fabled god appears
To the poor suppliant's grief,
Who bathes the marble form in tears,
And vainly hopes relief.
Ah _Greville!_ why the gifts refuse
To souls like thine allied?
No more thy nature seem to lose
No more thy softness hide.
No more invoke the playful sprite
To chill, with magic spell,
The tender feelings of delight,
And anguish sung so well;
That envied ease thy heart would prove
Were sure too dearly bought
With friendship, sympathy, and love,
And every finer thought.
A SONG.
I.
No riches from his scanty store
My lover could impart;
He gave a boon I valued more--
He gave me all his heart!
II.
His soul sincere, his gen'rous worth,
Might well this bosom move;
And when I ask'd for bliss on earth,
I only meant his love.
III.
But now for me, in search of gain
From shore to shore he flies:
Why wander riches to obtain,
When love is all I prize?
IV.
The frugal meal, the lowly cot
If blest my love with thee!
That simple fare, that humble lot,
Were more than wealth to me.
Pages:
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61