SONG.
I love thee, my own one! how much—can I tell?
I love thee—Oh would I could sing thee as well!
Oh would that my love could extort from the Nine,
A measure as noble as thou art divine!
I know that thy charms could immortalise song,
But I feel that my lays would thy loveliness wrong;
For that face is so sweet—Oh, I never can feign—
I can sing, but “I love thee, and—love thee again!”
But could I describe thee, love, just as thou art,
With their numbers the Nine might unwelcomed depart;
For the world—so enchanting the picture would be—
Could not think of the numbers, for thinking of thee!
There are bards who can sing the fair Angels they love
In strains might be chanted by Angels above;
But strive as I may to be lofty, my strain
Still recurs to, “I love thee, and—love thee again!”
'Tis not that those Angels are fairer, I trow,
Than a dear winsome Angel who smiles on me now;
No! their verses in vain with my song would compete,
Were my song half as good as its subject is sweet!
And I will not, I cannot, believe it to be,
That their love could be greater than mine is for thee;
Oh no, for if Truth could give worth to a lay,
I need not have blushed for my numbers to day!
Then my own one I know will confide in me still,
Though by fancy deserted, unaided by skill;
For my heart, not my Muse, bids me sing thee a strain,
Which but vows that “I love thee, and—love thee again!”
