Think not to charm me with thine eye,
Those smiling lips, that heaving sigh,
My heart 's charm'd with a nobler tie,—
It is thy mind, Eliza.
This heart, which every love could warm,
Which every pretty face could charm,
No more will beat the sweet alarm,
But to my young Eliza.
The peasant lad unyokes his car,
The star of even shines bright and far,
And lights me to the flood-torn scaur,
To meet my young Eliza.
There is the smile to please, where truth
And soft persuasion fills her mouth,
While warm with all the fire of youth,
She clasps me, young Eliza.
My heart's blood warms in stronger flow,
My cheeks are tinged with redder glow,
When sober matron, Evening slow,
Bids me to meet Eliza.
The bard can kindle his soul to flame,
The patriot hunts a deathless name;
Give me the peasant's humble fame,
And give me young Eliza.
The warlock glen has tint its gloom,
The fairie burn the witching broom,
All wear a lovelier, sweeter bloom,
For there I meet Eliza.
Then come that mind, so finely form'd,
By native truth and virtue warm'd,
With love's soft simplest lay is charm'd,
Come to my breast, Eliza.