Song. The Maid of the Valley
Have you not seen the charmer of the vale?
Nor heard her praise, in Love's fond accents drest? —
Nor how that Love has turn'd my youth so pale! —
Nor how those graces rob my soul of rest! —
That softest cheek, where dimp'ling cherubs play!
That bashful eye, whose beams dissolve the heart! —
Ah, gaze no more, fond wretch! — no longer stay! —
'Tis death! — but ah, 'tis worse than death to part!
My blessings round the happy mansion wait,
That guards that form, in tender beauty drest!
Those lips, of truth and smiles the rosy seat!
Those matchless charms, by every bard confest!
That slender brow! — that hand so dazzling fair,
No silk its hue or softness can express!
No feather'd songsters can their down compare
With half the beauty those dear hands possess!
Love in thy every feature couch'd a dart!
O'er thy fair face, and bosom's white he play'd;
Love in thy golden tresses chain'd my heart,
And heaven's own smile thy 'witching face array'd!
Not Deirdre 's charms that on each bosom stole,
And led the champions of our isle away;
Nor she whose eyes threw fetters o'er the soul,
The fam'd Blanaide like thee the heart could sway!
Of beauty's garden, oh thou fairest flower!
Accept my vows, and truth for treasure take!
Oh deign to share with me Love's blissful power,
Nor constant faith, for fleeting wealth, forsake!
My muse her harp shall at thy bidding bring,
And roll th' heroic tide of verse along;
And Finian Chiefs, and arms shall wake the string,
And Love and War divide the lofty song!
Nor heard her praise, in Love's fond accents drest? —
Nor how that Love has turn'd my youth so pale! —
Nor how those graces rob my soul of rest! —
That softest cheek, where dimp'ling cherubs play!
That bashful eye, whose beams dissolve the heart! —
Ah, gaze no more, fond wretch! — no longer stay! —
'Tis death! — but ah, 'tis worse than death to part!
My blessings round the happy mansion wait,
That guards that form, in tender beauty drest!
Those lips, of truth and smiles the rosy seat!
Those matchless charms, by every bard confest!
That slender brow! — that hand so dazzling fair,
No silk its hue or softness can express!
No feather'd songsters can their down compare
With half the beauty those dear hands possess!
Love in thy every feature couch'd a dart!
O'er thy fair face, and bosom's white he play'd;
Love in thy golden tresses chain'd my heart,
And heaven's own smile thy 'witching face array'd!
Not Deirdre 's charms that on each bosom stole,
And led the champions of our isle away;
Nor she whose eyes threw fetters o'er the soul,
The fam'd Blanaide like thee the heart could sway!
Of beauty's garden, oh thou fairest flower!
Accept my vows, and truth for treasure take!
Oh deign to share with me Love's blissful power,
Nor constant faith, for fleeting wealth, forsake!
My muse her harp shall at thy bidding bring,
And roll th' heroic tide of verse along;
And Finian Chiefs, and arms shall wake the string,
And Love and War divide the lofty song!
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