 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
142
A TURKISH SONG.
The wretch of sordid mould, who poises love with gold,
And hugs the yellow store till passion's rage is o'er,
Can never hope to prove the sweets of mutual love.
But oh, the generous youth, inspired by love and truth,
Who deems no price too high, that wins affection's sigh,
'T is he alone can move a maiden's heart to love.
And hugs the yellow store till passion's rage is o'er,
Can never hope to prove the sweets of mutual love.
But oh, the generous youth, inspired by love and truth,
Who deems no price too high, that wins affection's sigh,
'T is he alone can move a maiden's heart to love.
A maiden's heart is cold, till touched with dart of gold,
All feathered from the dove, and barbed by infant love;
Its polished point must be, the weapon of the bee.
Adorned and hid from view, by gems of honeydew;
It then so charms the eye, we deem no danger nigh,
Till deep within the heart is felt the nectared smart.
All feathered from the dove, and barbed by infant love;
Its polished point must be, the weapon of the bee.
Adorned and hid from view, by gems of honeydew;
It then so charms the eye, we deem no danger nigh,
Till deep within the heart is felt the nectared smart.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |