I love to watch thy youthful eye,
That speaks thy fond affection;
I love to hear thy tender sigh,--
It charms my deep dejection.

The gentle beamings of that eye
Have power to soothe each sorrow,
While casting hope's refulgent dye,
In glances, on to-morrow.

My love is clear as crystal streams,
Flowing from sylvan fountains,--
And pure as Phoebus' noon-day beams,
That gild yon rising mountains.

And constant as the Northern Bear,
That guards the pole unceasing,
And ushers in the new-born year,--
Nor waning, nor decreasing.

But still, shouldst thou faithless prove,
Thy plighted vows resigning,
Leave me and seek another love,
I'd bear, without repining.

No discontent should fill my breast,
But calm as summer even,
I'd still look forward to my rest,
In yonder vaulted heaven.

And still I'd breathe my pray'r for thee
With all my soul's devotion,
Till life itself should cease to be,
And death chill'd each emotion.

Then calm as day's expiring breath,
Each injury forgiven,
My ransom'd soul should take its flight,
And wing its way to Heaven.