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202 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;
Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn
With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.
For crystal brows there's nought witHin, They are but empty cells for pride;
He who the Siren's hair would win Is mostly strangled in the tide.
Give me, instead of beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind,
Which with temptation I would trust, Yet never linked with error find —
One in whose gentle bosom I
Could pour my secret heart of woes,
Like the care-burthened honey-fly That hides his murmurs in the rose.
My earthly comforter ! whose love
So indefeasible might be, That when my spirit wonned above,
Hers could not stay for sympathy. |
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