Is an olden charm withdrawn.
Come back with thy beaming smile,
For my heart is mournful grown—
Fast the wild bird flies, when her sad mate cries,
My loved—my own!
I have prayed for a spell whereby
I might question the wind of thee,
And learn if thy cheek is flushed with health,
Or wan, while afar from me:
And I start when the casement jars,