Still strain with joy's ecstatic thrill,
Thee to this bosom, dearest! till
I rest in heaven from earthly ill.
Give me thy heart, thy unstained hand,
And though I scorn it, give thy land,
Then, by a rainbow sweet and bland,
Shall life's cerulean arch be spann'd.
Beneath that arch of beauty, flowers
Brilliant as bloom in heaven's own bowers,
And bathed in joy's ambrosial showers,