ARION.
A TALE.
The winds are high, the clouds are dark,
But stay not thou for storm, my bark;
What is the song of love to me,
Unheard, my sweet Eglæ, by thee?
Fair lips may smile, and eyes may shine;
But lip nor eye will be like thine,
And every blush that mantles here
But images one more bright and more dear.
My spirit of song is languid and dead,
If not at thine altar of beauty fed.
