 | Poems |  |
26
SONG.
1
The heart may beat—the bosom rise—In all the gloom of sorrow's hue;
The tear may stain those lovely eyes,
That never dropp'd, before, their dew!
2
Heed not—'tis but a hectic gleam,Caught from the force of passioned pain;
'Tis as delusive, as the dream
That hovers round the slumb'ring brain!
3
But if, diffused by hope or fear,The bosom pants—the fair cheek flushes;
'Tis then—mild—lovely—and sincere—
And only then, that Virtue blushes!
| Poems | |