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IRISH MELODIES. |
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Some voice whisper'd o'er me, As the threshold I croit,
There was ruin before me, If I lov'd I was lost.
Love came, and brought sorrow
Too soon in his train ; Yet so sweet, that to-morrow
'Twere welcome again. Though misery's full measure
My portion should be, I would drain it with pleasure,
If pour'd out by thee.
You, who call it dishonour
To bow to this flame, If you've eyes, look but on her,
And blush while you blame. Hath the pearl less whiteness
Because of its birth ? Hath the violet less brightness
For growing near earth ?
No—Man for his glory
To ancestry flies; But Woman's bright story
Is told in her eyes. While the Monarch but traces
Thro' mortals his line, Beauty, born of the Graces,
Ranks next to Divine ! |
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