  HER tears are all thine own! how blest thou art! Thine, too, the blush which no reserve can bind; Thy farewell voice was as the stirring wind That floats the rose-bloom; thou hast won her heart; Dear are the hopes it ushers to thy breast; She speaks not—but she gives her silent bond; And thou mayst trust it, asking nought beyond The promise, which as yet no words attest; Deep in her bosom sinks the conscious glow, And deep in thine! and I can well foresee, If thou shalt feel a lover’s jealousy For her brief absence, what a ruling power A bygone blush shall prove! until the hour Of meeting, when thy next love-rose shall blow. |
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