STANZA S. YES! they are right, who fondly say But lasts, though earth and time decay, For love, they tell us, is a flower Too pure to flourish, save on high; They say it lives its earthly hour, In charms that fade, and tints that die, To ripen for its heavenly bower, And grace the gardens of the sky! STANZA S. THE tear that dimm'd, sweet girl, thine eye, Lay, in its orb, a moment hid; And linger'd, as if loth to fly The circle of its native lid. At length, while sad and slow it left It seem'd a pearl, reluctant reft THE BANKS OF LOIRE. TO A LADY. O, WHY art thou so far away From scenes to love and feeling dear Where every object seems to say That thou, alone, art wanting here? For e'en in such a scene as this, Thy presence would fresh charms inspire, Yes, thou could'st heighten e'en the bliss Of these sweet banks! the banks of Loire ! Tis evening; and that gentle hour For me hath charms, of blest control; And every spell of holiest power Hath, then, its influence o'er my soul. And oft, in many a twilight dream And love to haunt this fairy stream, And these sweet banks! the banks of Loire ! THE BANKS OF LOIRE. 'Tis evening now; but such an eve, So calm, so cloudless, and so pure, Yet lingers, loth to leave so soon These beauteous banks! the banks of Loire ! 'Tis evening; but the fall of night Sinks softly on a scene so rare, The winds have sung themselves to rest, As hush'd upon the river's breast, They kiss the banks, the banks of Loire! 'Tis evening, and meek twilight throws Soft shades o'er river, vale, and hill, And Nature sinks in sweet repose, And all is beauteous! all is still! 45 46 THE BANKS OF LOIRE. Save that with oft-repeated lays, The warblers, in their evening choir, Unite their music, in the praise Of these fair banks, the banks of Loire ! 'Tis evening; and this smiling scene Beyond the Paradise that's given On these fair banks, the banks of Loire ? 'Tis evening; by the twilight gleam, A I see a bright, and a fairy isle, gem amid that silver stream, A dimple on that river's smile! And I would claim, for us, that spot, For what could love itself require? But just the space to build a cot On these fair banks, the banks of Loire ! |