 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
ASK ME NO MORE FOR SONG.
Ask me no more for song, dear maid,
A mournful lyre like mine,
That can not now one heart persuade,
Would do no grace to thine;
The song to win such youthful ear,
Should breathe that matin tone,
Which, born of Love's own blesséd sphere,
Makes every sphere its own.
A mournful lyre like mine,
That can not now one heart persuade,
Would do no grace to thine;
The song to win such youthful ear,
Should breathe that matin tone,
Which, born of Love's own blesséd sphere,
Makes every sphere its own.
Once, not in vain, the lip that speaks
Had bid my numbers flow;
While throbbing veins, and flushing cheeks,
Had told what none should know!
Had we but met in earlier days,
Thou had'st not asked in vain:
Nor I, beneath thy beauty's blaze,
Refused to wear its chain!
Had bid my numbers flow;
While throbbing veins, and flushing cheeks,
Had told what none should know!
Had we but met in earlier days,
Thou had'st not asked in vain:
Nor I, beneath thy beauty's blaze,
Refused to wear its chain!
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |