  Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above; O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, I too could glide to the bower of my love! Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forests far away. Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest, Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me, Come, this fond bosom, O faithfulest and fairest Bleeds with its death-wound its wound of love for thee! George Darley |
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