 | Naked Genius |  |
73
ROSABELLA—PURITY OF HEART.
Though with an angel's tongue,
I set on fire the congregations all,
'Tis but a brazen bell that I have rung,
And I to nothing fall,
My theme is but an idle air,
If Rosabella is not there.
I set on fire the congregations all,
'Tis but a brazen bell that I have rung,
And I to nothing fall,
My theme is but an idle air,
If Rosabella is not there.
Though I in thunders rave,
And hurl the blaze of oratoric flowers,
Others I move but fail myself to save.
With my declaiming powers,
I sink, alas! I know not where,
If Rosabella is not there.
And hurl the blaze of oratoric flowers,
Others I move but fail myself to save.
With my declaiming powers,
I sink, alas! I know not where,
If Rosabella is not there.
Though I point out the way,
And closely circumscribe the path to Heaven,
And pour my melting prayer without delay,
And vow my sins forgiven,
I sink into the gloom, despair,
If Rosabella is not there.
And closely circumscribe the path to Heaven,
And pour my melting prayer without delay,
And vow my sins forgiven,
I sink into the gloom, despair,
If Rosabella is not there.
Though I may mountains move,
And make the valleys vocal with my song,
I'm vain without a stream of mystic love,
For all my heart is wrung,
I've laid myself a cruel snare,
If Rosabella is not there.
And make the valleys vocal with my song,
I'm vain without a stream of mystic love,
For all my heart is wrung,
I've laid myself a cruel snare,
If Rosabella is not there.
From bibliothic stores
I fly proclaiming Heaven from land to land,
Or cross the seas and reach their distant shores,
'Mid gothic groups to stand,
O, let me of myself beware,
If Rosabella is not there.
I fly proclaiming Heaven from land to land,
Or cross the seas and reach their distant shores,
'Mid gothic groups to stand,
O, let me of myself beware,
If Rosabella is not there.
74
Our classic books must fail,
And with their flow'ry tongue's to ashes burn,
And not one groat a mortal wit bewail,
Upon his last return,
Be this the creature's faithful prayer,
That Rosabella may be there.
And with their flow'ry tongue's to ashes burn,
And not one groat a mortal wit bewail,
Upon his last return,
Be this the creature's faithful prayer,
That Rosabella may be there.
This spotless maid was born,
The babe of Heaven and cannot be defiled,
The soul is dead and in a state forlorn,
On which she has not smiled,
Vain are the circle and the fair,
If Rosabella be not there.
The babe of Heaven and cannot be defiled,
The soul is dead and in a state forlorn,
On which she has not smiled,
Vain are the circle and the fair,
If Rosabella be not there.
When other pleasures tire,
And mortal glories fade to glow no more,
She with the wing of truth augments her fire,
And still prevails to soar,
All else must die the good and wise,
But Rosabella never dies.
And mortal glories fade to glow no more,
She with the wing of truth augments her fire,
And still prevails to soar,
All else must die the good and wise,
But Rosabella never dies.
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