Page:Friendship's Offering 1828.pdf/8

Or, pass you such poor triumph by;
The pride is on your brow,
And laughing lip and flashing eye
Another hope avow.
What dost thou dream of, lovely one?
Of hearts that but a look hath won?—
Looks shaft-like from a bow,
That slay by chance?—Now, out on thee!
To think of such cold vanity.

Or do you dream a dearer dream,
And can such dream be Love?—
No star hath such a fatal beam
In yon wide heaven above.
Go, waste your first, your sweetest years;
Go, wash away your rose with tears;
Go, like a wounded dove;
The poison'd arrow in your side
You cannot bear, you yet must hide!

Mark her, who by yon column lone
Leans with dark absent eye;
A blush upon her cheek is thrown,
'Tis from the red wreath nigh:
She's musing over some sweet word,
Long whisper'd but still freshly heard,
Some honey flattery;
Careless perchance, and lightly spoken,
But which the heart too oft hath broken.