And lay it, with tears, on the altar of truth!
We pass from the presence of beauty, to think—
As the hunter will pause on the precipice brink—
“For me shall the bloom of the gladsome and fair
Be wasted away by the fetters of care?
Shall the old, peaceful nest, for my sake, be forgot,
And the gentle and free know a wearisome lot?
“By the tender appeal of that beauty, beware
How you woo her thy desolate fortunes to share.
O pluck not a lily so sheltered and sweet,