 | Young Arthur |  |
ERNEST.
The pillow may be of eider down
And the head lie restless there;
And sleep with her poppies the brow may crown
But the mind may awake to care.
Young Ernest, tho' clos'd were his fever'd eyes,
That night was a prey to the mock'ry of sleep;
Restless and murmuring, as misery lies,
His startings were frequent, his sighs were deep.
O! Edith, thy pow'r all were fated to prove,
And deep from thine eyes drank young Ernest of love.
And the head lie restless there;
And sleep with her poppies the brow may crown
But the mind may awake to care.
Young Ernest, tho' clos'd were his fever'd eyes,
That night was a prey to the mock'ry of sleep;
Restless and murmuring, as misery lies,
His startings were frequent, his sighs were deep.
O! Edith, thy pow'r all were fated to prove,
And deep from thine eyes drank young Ernest of love.
And have you heard the wild-maid's song
As she wanders thro' the vale?
“I've bound young Love in a silken thong,
His quiver it floats the stream along,
And I've scatter'd his darts to the gale.
And, its O, gather blown roses, maids,
And weave with 'em garlands gay;
For Love is crost,
His arrows are lost,
And we shall be merry as May.”
As she wanders thro' the vale?
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His quiver it floats the stream along,
And I've scatter'd his darts to the gale.
And, its O, gather blown roses, maids,
And weave with 'em garlands gay;
For Love is crost,
His arrows are lost,
And we shall be merry as May.”
Heav'n sent love to bless mankind,
Passion made him wing'd and blind:
There is a weal transform'd to woe—
All is not love we carol so.
Passion made him wing'd and blind:
There is a weal transform'd to woe—
All is not love we carol so.
| Young Arthur | |