AND hast thou mark'd the pensive shade, That many a time obscures my brow, 'Midst all the blisses, darling maid, Which thou canst give, and only thou? Oh, 'tis not that I then forget The endearing charms that round me twine -- There never throbb'd a bosom yet Could feel their witchery like mine! When bashful on my bosom hid, And blushing to have felt so blest, Thou dost but lift thy languid lid, Again to close it on my breast! Oh! these are minutes all thine own, Thine own to give, and mine to feel; Yet e'en in them, my heart has known The sigh to rise, the tear to steal. For I have thought of former hours, When he who first thy soul possess'd, Like me awaked its witching powers, Like me was loved, like me was blest! Upon @3his@1 name thy murmuring tongue Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt; For him that snowy lid hath hung In ecstacy, as purely felt! For him -- yet why the past recall To wither blooms of present bliss? Thou'rt now my own, I clasp thee all, And Heaven can grant no more than this! Forgive me, dearest, oh! forgive; I would be first, be sole to thee, Thou should'st have but begun to live, The hour that gave thy heart to me. Thy book of life till then effaced, Love should have kept that leaf alone, On which he first so dearly traced That thou wert, soul and all, my own! |