It is to gaze Upon her eyes
With eager joy and fond surprise;
Yet tempered with such chaste and awful fear
As wretches feel who wait their doom;
Nor must one ruder thought presume,
Though but in whispers breathed, to meet her ear.
It is to hope, though hope were lost;
Though heaven and earth thy passion crossed;
Though she were bright as sainted queens above,
And thou the least and meanest swain
That folds his flock upon the plain,—
Yet if thou darest not hope, thou dost not love.
It is to quench thy joy in tears;
To nurse strange doubts and groundless fears:
If pangs of jealousy thou hast not proved,—
Though she were fonder and more true
Than any nymph old poets drew,—
O never dream again that thou hast loved!
Page:The works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld volume 1.djvu/158
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74
SONGS.
