217
All in this old wood,
They may shed my blood,
But false to my true love
I never can be.
Peace, breaking heart! it is not so,
For sweetly I hear your voices flow—
All your sad soft voices flow
Like the murmurs of the ocean,
Kissed by Zephyrs into motion;
And when shells have found a tongue
To sing, as they were wont to sing,
When this noble world was young;
And the sea formed love's bright ring,
And hearts found hearts in every thing.
Now the trees find apt replying,
To your music, with a sighing
That doth witch the owl to sleep;
And, waving their great arms to and fro,
They feel ye walk, and their heads they bow
In adoration deep.
And I, with very joy could now,
Like weakest infant weep,
That hath its humour, and doth go
With joy-wrung tears to sleep.
