THE MAID WHO WOVE.[11]
"Russian Air."
The maid who wove the rosy wreath
With every flower—hath wrought a spell,
And though her chaplets fragrance breathe
And balmy sweets—I know full well,
'Neath every bud, or blossom gay,
There lurks a chain—Love's tyranny.
Though round her ruby lips, enshrin'd,
Sits stillness, soft as evening skies—
Though crimson'd cheek you seldom find,
Or glances from her downcast eyes—
There lurks, unseen, a world of charms,
Which ne'er betray young Love's alarms.
O trust not to her silent tongue;
Her settled calm, or absent smile;
Nor dream that nymph, so fair and young,
May not enchain in Love's soft guile;
For where Love is—or what's Love's spell—
No mortal knows—no tongue can tell.
A SIGH AND A SMILE.
Welsh Air—"Sir William Watkin Wynne."
From Beauty's soft lip, like the balm of its roses,
Or breath of the morning, a sigh took its flight;
Nor far had it stray'd forth, when Pity proposes
The wanderer should lodge in this bosom a night.