 | The poetical works of the late Thomas Little [i.e. Thomas Moore] |  |
67
THE BALLAD.
Thou has sent me a flowery band,
And told me 't was fresh from the field;
That the leaves were untouch'd by the hand,
And the purest of odours would yield.
And told me 't was fresh from the field;
That the leaves were untouch'd by the hand,
And the purest of odours would yield.
And indeed it is fragrant and fair;
But, if it were handled by thee,
It would bloom with a livelier air,
And would surely be sweeter to me!
But, if it were handled by thee,
It would bloom with a livelier air,
And would surely be sweeter to me!
Then take it, and let it entwine
Thy tresses, so flowing and bright;
And each little flowret will shine
More rich than a gem to my sight.
Thy tresses, so flowing and bright;
And each little flowret will shine
More rich than a gem to my sight.
68
Let the odorous gale of thy breath
Embalm it with many a sigh;
Nay, let it be wither'd to death
Beneath the warm noon of thine eye.
Embalm it with many a sigh;
Nay, let it be wither'd to death
Beneath the warm noon of thine eye.
And, instead of the dew that it bears,
The dew dropping fresh from the tree;
On its leaves let me number the tears
That Affection has stolen from thee!
The dew dropping fresh from the tree;
On its leaves let me number the tears
That Affection has stolen from thee!
| The poetical works of the late Thomas Little [i.e. Thomas Moore] | |