 | Songs and Ballads |  |
91
TO HELENA ON HER BIRTHDAY.
My own Love! my true Love! here's health and joy to you, Love!
A happy year, without a tear, and sweet smiles not a few, Love.
Of all my anniversaries, I prize your birthday best,
And well I may, for 'twas the day that brighten'd all the rest;
To this I owe my bliss below—oh, more than that, the Love
Whose purity my guide may be to happiness above!
A happy year, without a tear, and sweet smiles not a few, Love.
Of all my anniversaries, I prize your birthday best,
And well I may, for 'twas the day that brighten'd all the rest;
To this I owe my bliss below—oh, more than that, the Love
Whose purity my guide may be to happiness above!
My wedding-day is welcome, but it shines in borrow'd bliss,—
That day owes all its value to the dear one born on this:
In doubt, you are the monitor, I scorn not to obey,
You are the friend I turn to, when a joy is torn away:
In sorrow, I have often feign'd hope's softly soothing tone,
Till, striving to subdue your grief, I half forgot my own.
And then in bliss—oh, what is bliss, I ask, unless it be
To look upon your happiness!—aye, that's the bliss for me!
That day owes all its value to the dear one born on this:
In doubt, you are the monitor, I scorn not to obey,
You are the friend I turn to, when a joy is torn away:
In sorrow, I have often feign'd hope's softly soothing tone,
Till, striving to subdue your grief, I half forgot my own.
And then in bliss—oh, what is bliss, I ask, unless it be
To look upon your happiness!—aye, that's the bliss for me!
| Songs and Ballads | |