 | The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems |  |
159
FIRST LOVE.
A BALLAD.
Ah me! how hard the task to bear
The weight of ills we know!
But harder still to dry the tear,
That mourns a nameless wo.
The weight of ills we know!
But harder still to dry the tear,
That mourns a nameless wo.
If by the side of Lucy's wheel
I sit to see her spin,
My head around begins to reel,
My heart to beat within.
I sit to see her spin,
My head around begins to reel,
My heart to beat within.
160
Or when on harvest holyday
I lead the dance along,
If Lucy chance to cross my way,
So sure she leads me wrong.
I lead the dance along,
If Lucy chance to cross my way,
So sure she leads me wrong.
If I attempt the pipe to play,
And catch my Lucy's eye,
The trembling musick dies away,
And melts into a sigh.
And catch my Lucy's eye,
The trembling musick dies away,
And melts into a sigh.
Where'er I go, where'er I turn,
If Lucy there be found,
I seem to shiver, yet I burn,
My head goes swimming round.
If Lucy there be found,
I seem to shiver, yet I burn,
My head goes swimming round.
I cannot bear to see her smile,
Unless she smile on me;
And if she frown, I sigh the while,
But know not whence it be.
Unless she smile on me;
And if she frown, I sigh the while,
But know not whence it be.
161
Ah, what have I to Lucy done
To cause me so much stir?
From rising to the setting sun
I sigh, and think of her.
To cause me so much stir?
From rising to the setting sun
I sigh, and think of her.
In vain I strive to join the throng
In social mirth and ease;
Now lonely woods I stray among,
For only woods can please.
In social mirth and ease;
Now lonely woods I stray among,
For only woods can please.
Ah, me! this restless heart I fear
Will never be at rest,
'Till Lucy cease to live, or tear
Her image from my breast.
Will never be at rest,
'Till Lucy cease to live, or tear
Her image from my breast.
| The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other poems | |