This poor heart to illume,
Or else the rose that through the dance
Thy tresses did perfume.
Keep, cruel one, the ribbon blue
From thy light hand that flows;
Keep it—it binds my fond heart true;
But oh, give me the rose!’
‘How well it suits Mr. Turner’s voice,’ said Lucilla, as the singer paused in the interval between the verses.
‘The words are lovely,’ said her friend—‘so full of feeling!’
‘The sighs that, drawn from mem’ry’s fount,