 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
WELL, IF THAT DREAM OF BLISS.
Well, if that dream of bliss be over,
That moved so deeply heart and brain,
I am not that insensate lover,
To lose, and then to love again;
The hour that tells me hope has vanish'd,
An hour of freedom can not be;
As well assure the wretch that's banish'd
From home and country, he is free!
That moved so deeply heart and brain,
I am not that insensate lover,
To lose, and then to love again;
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An hour of freedom can not be;
As well assure the wretch that's banish'd
From home and country, he is free!
'Tis true that gallant barques may bear him
To other climes as fair as this,
And eyes may warm, and lips may cheer him,
With memories of a former bliss;
Yet, were he blind to every aspect
Of storm and sorrow in his gaze,
He could not lose that ancient prospect
That stamp'd his soul in earlier days.
To other climes as fair as this,
And eyes may warm, and lips may cheer him,
With memories of a former bliss;
Yet, were he blind to every aspect
Of storm and sorrow in his gaze,
He could not lose that ancient prospect
That stamp'd his soul in earlier days.
The exiled heart bears still an anguish
That never leaves his fancy free;
And doom'd on foreign rocks to languish,
Still dreams of homes he can not see.
Far back o'er waves of memory roving,
Decreed to feel, yet still deplore;
His passions, like their tempests proving—
His hopes, the wrecks that strew the shore.
That never leaves his fancy free;
And doom'd on foreign rocks to languish,
Still dreams of homes he can not see.
Far back o'er waves of memory roving,
Decreed to feel, yet still deplore;
His passions, like their tempests proving—
His hopes, the wrecks that strew the shore.
If thine's the heart which yet can cherish
Each fancy of thy childhood still,
'Tis well, perchance, that mine should perish
'Neath broken faith and fickle will!
The heart which thou discard'st so cheaply,
Thine ear shall never hear repine;
It loves thee still, too dearly, deeply,
And fondly bears the doom of thine.
Each fancy of thy childhood still,
'Tis well, perchance, that mine should perish
'Neath broken faith and fickle will!
The heart which thou discard'st so cheaply,
Thine ear shall never hear repine;
It loves thee still, too dearly, deeply,
And fondly bears the doom of thine.
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |