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I am no Italian lover,
If thou mayst be won away,
Yet, in this thou mayst believe me;
For, if virtue me forsake,
Then, as I on thee relying
That, unmatched we may prove,
THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.
They know not my heart, who believe there
One stain of this earth in its feelings for
thee; Who think, while I see thee in beauty's
young hour, As pure as the morning's first dew on the
flower, I could harm what I love-as the sun's
wanton ray But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it
away! No!-beaming with light as those young
features are, There's a light round thy heart which is
lovelier far: It is not that cheek—'tis the soul dawning
clear Through its innocent blush makes thy beauty As the sky we look up to, though glorious
and fair, Is look'd up to the more because heaven is
THE WAKING BEAUTY.
Rise, lady! mistress, rise!
The night hath tedious been,
Nor slumbers made me sin :
Rise, madam, rise! and give me light,
Whom darkness still will cover, And ignorance, darker than night,
Till thou smile on thy lover: All want day till thy beauty riseFor the gray morn breaks from thine eyes.
Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom, And her lip has lost all its faint perfume, And the gloss has dropp'd from her golden
hair, And her cheek is pale—but no longer fair; And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye, Is struck with cold mortality; And the smile that play'd round her lip has
fled, And every charm has now left the dead.
Like slaves they obey'd her in height of
power, But left her all in her wintry hour; And the crowds that swore for her love to
die, Shrunk from the tone of her last faint sighAnd this is man's fidelity! 'Tis woman alone, with a purer heart, Can see all these idols of life depart; And love the more, and smile and bless Man in his uttermost wretchedness.
Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclined Beneath the vast outstretching branches high Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie, Nor of the busier scenes we left behind Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed
maid ! Beloved! I were well content to play With thy free tresses all a summer's day, Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade. Or we might sit and tell some tender tale Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn, A tale of true love, or of friend forgot ; And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail In gentle sort, on those who practise not Or love or pity, though of woman born.
Huon.-- I loved thee once! Oh! tell me, when was it I loved thee not?