Classic Poem

PART III.

" My dove, who in a rock dost hide,
" And in the secret cliffs reside,
" O let thy face to me appear!
" Nor let me fail thy voice to hear!
" That melting voice of thine is sweet;
" And in thy face all graces meet.
" The foxes, those young foxes take,
" Which in our vineyards ravage make:
" Strive to defeat their ill designs;
" For tender grapes adorn our vines.
My love is mine, and I am his,
His pasture 'mong the lillies is.
Until the welcome dawn of day,
When gloomy shadows fly away,
Turn, my beloved, turn again,
Nor let me call and beg in vain:
Be like a roe or nimble fawn,
That runs and skips along the lawn;
Such as the hills of Bether breed,
Such as the hills of Bether feed.