E'er since I landed on those shores,
Of endless spring, and brightest ores,
I have not thought of ought but thee,
Ne'er can my bosom now be free.
List! sweet Iola! am I vain?
I deem thou lovest we well again;
For, when I sought thy downcast eyes,
They met mine with a glad surprise;
And when I spake to thee full low,
Thy voice was like a fountain's flow,