Had I a heart to give away, Its daily thought in life would be, Like yonder bird, with trembling lay, To sing sweet songs, dear love, of thee. But, ah! the heart that once was mine Is mine, alas! no more to give; And joys that once were joys divine In mem'ry now alone can live.
Adown the world two grand historic streams With stately flow moved on through widening ways, Rich with the glory of life's noblest dreams, Bright with the halo of life's sunniest days. Out from their depths two blithesome streamlets ran, O'er which the smiles of Heaven hourly shone; Till, meeting: Ah! then life afresh began, For both, embracing, mingled into one.
From yonder rose two crystal dewdrops hung But yestermorn. The sun came forth and kissed The gems that to the perfumed blossom clung, And clothed them with a robe of purple mist. The soft warm wind of Heaven gently breathed Upon the twain: they hung no more apart; But, with the sweetness of a rosebud wreathed, Blent soul with soul and mingled heart with heart.
Live on, united pair: with love so blest Your pathway ought but sunny may not be. Live on, united pair: and be the breast Of thornless roses yours unceasingly. And as the river to the ocean flies Be yours to pass as gently from life's shore: Then, like sweet fragrance when the blossom dies, Leave names to live in mem'ry evermore.
They tell me thou art faithless, Love! That vows thy lips have sworn-- The smiles which light thy lovely face-- Are false as April morn; My brightest dreams of happiness They wish me to forget: But, No! the spell that won my love Doth bind my spirit yet.
They tell me thou art faithless, Love! And changeful as a dream: They say thou'rt frail as drifts of sand That kiss the laughing stream; They whisper if I wed thee, Sweet! My heart will know regret: But, No! the spell that won my love Doth bind my spirit yet.
I would my Love were not so fair In sweet external beauty: And dreamt less of her charms so rare, And more of homely duty. The rose that blooms in pudent pride When pluckt will pout most sorely; P'rhaps she I'm wooing for my bride Will grow more self-willed hourly. Her form might shame the graceful fay's; Her face wears all life's graces: But wayward thoughts and wayward ways Make far from pretty faces.