 | May Fair |  |
What! she, whom all my summer days
I've worshipp'd with all sorts of lays;
She, on whose smiles my boyhood hung!
Whose glance alone now tunes my tongue;
Sting her! I could not if I dared,
The thought would all unbard the Bard.
The poison on her soul distil!
My hand at once would lose its skill;
My Cupid moult his purple wing,
My lute instinctive break the string;
And giving to the winds its moan,
Lament its noblest spirit gone.
I've worshipp'd with all sorts of lays;
She, on whose smiles my boyhood hung!
Whose glance alone now tunes my tongue;
Sting her! I could not if I dared,
The thought would all unbard the Bard.
74
My hand at once would lose its skill;
My Cupid moult his purple wing,
My lute instinctive break the string;
And giving to the winds its moan,
Lament its noblest spirit gone.
| May Fair | |