He will say his happiest hour
Was but as a fairy dower,—
Gold that for a moment shone,
Charmed the sight, and then was gone.
And albeit thy blind caprice
Gave the wearied one release,
'Twas to leave him like the pyre
Where the deadly flames expire;
Not till they have fed on all
Of odour, gem, or coronal,
Leaving smouldering waste behind,
Withered hope, and ruined mind;
Heart it were relief to break;
Oh, Love, thine is a fearful stake!—
What sweet picture may this seem?
Were it aught but painter's dream,
There were all in young Love's reign
Maidens hope for, minstrels feign;—
Leans he by his dear one's side,
From his eyes the veil untied;
Gentle as the gentlest rays
Of the dove's on which they gaze;
He has left his bow unbent,
Hung aside his shafts, content
But to trust his soft caress,
And his passing loveliness.
