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115
VENETIAN SERENADE.
Oh! linger not, love; for the beams of the moon
Are lighting our path o'er the glassy lagoon;
The yellow sand sparkles like gold on the shore;
And ripples of silver are laving my oar.
Are lighting our path o'er the glassy lagoon;
The yellow sand sparkles like gold on the shore;
And ripples of silver are laving my oar.
Night reigns o'er the world with her gem-crested brow,
And mirrors her stars in the waters below;
The air is delicious, with spice-breathing flowers,
That pour forth their odours from fairy-wrought bowers.
And mirrors her stars in the waters below;
The air is delicious, with spice-breathing flowers,
That pour forth their odours from fairy-wrought bowers.
'Tis just such an hour when, with those whom we love,
The soul might forget there's a heaven above;
In a moment so precious, so blissfully dear,
The wrapt spirit might fancy that heaven was here.
The soul might forget there's a heaven above;
In a moment so precious, so blissfully dear,
The wrapt spirit might fancy that heaven was here.
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