What care I whence the cold wind blows,
Or if yon skies be drear,
Now that my longing arms enclose
Her whom I hold most dear!

What care I for the wealth and power
That light an emperor's throne,
Since that kiss made—'tis scarce an hour—
Those tender lips my own!

Let warriors chase the phantom-light
Of glory o'er the field,
And tyrants with oppression's might
Make sullen nations yield.