 | Tales, in verse and miscellaneous poems |  |
216
A LOVE SONG.
What makes thee thus my hand to press,
With such an ardent fold;
What makes thee stop and sigh and blush,
Ere half thy tale be told?
Why do thy eyes, when fix'd on mine,
Such sweet sensations prove;
Then roll in softness, as they'd weep?—
It surely must be love.
With such an ardent fold;
What makes thee stop and sigh and blush,
Ere half thy tale be told?
Why do thy eyes, when fix'd on mine,
Such sweet sensations prove;
Then roll in softness, as they'd weep?—
It surely must be love.
Why does that wanton hand of thine,
Thus wander o'er my breast?
The little trembler that's within,
Thou marrest of its rest.
The silent language of thy sighs,
Me, too, to sigh doth move;
Yet still you press me to your breast,
And say “it's all but love.”—
Thus wander o'er my breast?
The little trembler that's within,
Thou marrest of its rest.
217
Me, too, to sigh doth move;
Yet still you press me to your breast,
And say “it's all but love.”—
Whene'er you lay your cheek to mine
It makes my pulse to beat;
If lip to lip we e'er entwine,
You clasp me still more strait,
Till in one breath we seem to live,
And in one sphere to move;
Such pleasing pain it seems to give,
It surely must be love.
It makes my pulse to beat;
If lip to lip we e'er entwine,
You clasp me still more strait,
Till in one breath we seem to live,
And in one sphere to move;
Such pleasing pain it seems to give,
It surely must be love.
While thus I lie within your arms—
O tell an artless maid—
Hast thou on me no base designs,
Nor sly entrapments laid?
O, no! that heart is full of truth,
And constant as the dove;
Then I'll resign me to thy arms,
And trust its all but love.
O tell an artless maid—
Hast thou on me no base designs,
Nor sly entrapments laid?
O, no! that heart is full of truth,
And constant as the dove;
Then I'll resign me to thy arms,
And trust its all but love.
| Tales, in verse and miscellaneous poems | |