That spare not e’en the purest heart;
His looks the traitor prove;
That glance is fire, that mien is guile,
Deceit is lurking in that smile—
Oh! trust him not—’tis Love!
CHAULIEU.
“Grotte, d’où sort ce clair ruisseau.”
Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring,
Its margin fringed with moss and flowers,
Still bid its voice of murmurs bring