Syren-like, singing sweet melodies,
And the home-sick mariner feels my power
In the loneliness of that star-lit hour.
But, oh! far more do I love to sip
The fragrant dew on beauty’s lip,
To braid each tress of her wavy hair,
And tinge with bright blushes her cheek so fair:
O’er the poet’s couch my spirit bendeth,
And my form with his visions softly blendeth,
While he whose soul sweet music fires