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i44 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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The'polish'd ringlets of thy jetty locks Shame the black raven's on the sun-gild rocks; Thy neck can boast a whiter, lovelier glow, Than the wild cygnet's silvery plume of snow. |
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And from thy bosom, the soft throne of bliss, The witch of love, in all her blessedness, Heaves all her spells, wings all her feathered darts, And dips her arrows in adoring hearts. Rise, Eva, rise ! the sun sheds his sweet ray, Am'rous to kiss thee—rise, my love ! we'll stray Across the mountain, on the blossomy heath, The heath-bloom holds for thee its odorous breath. |
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From the tall crag, aspiring to the skies, I'll pick for thee the strings of strawberries; The yellow nuts, too, from the hazel-tree — Soul of my heart!—I'll strip to give to thee: As thy red lips the berries shall be bright, And the sweet nuts shall be as rife and white And milky, as the love-begotten tide That fills thy spotless bosom, my sweet bride.
Queen of the smile of joy ! shall I not kiss
Thee in the moss-grown cot, bless'd bower of bliss —
Shall not thy rapturous lover clasp thy charms,
And fold his Eva in his loving arms —
Shall Inniscather's wood again attest
Thy beauties strain'd unto this burning breast ?
Absent how long ! Ah ! when wilt thou return?
When shall this wither'd bosom cease to mourn? |
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