Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/False, yet Fair

False, yet Fair.

Oh! she was bright and fair to see,Her tresses rippled to her knee,Her laugh it rang out merrily    O'er hill and dale.I wandered with her many a day,In the sweet, blooming, month of May,Through many a devious flowery way,    Till day waxed pale.

She made sad havoc with her eyes,And breathed such dainty little sighs,Alas! I was not over-wise—    And she was fair!She subtly wove her fatal spellAround my heart, and brain as well,Then calmly turned my heaven to hell,    And spurned my prayer.

Ah! yes, they haunt me even now,Those cruel eyes, that regal brow—I shudder on remembering how    I lived her slave!But that was years, long years ago,And now my hair is white as snow;With feeble tottering steps and slow,    I near the grave!