Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/On this Cold Flinty Rock

On This Cold Flinty Rock.

On this cold flinty rock I will lay down my head, And happy will sing through the night;The moon shall smile sweetly upon my cold bed, And the stars crowd to give me a light.    Then, come to me, my gentle dear,    Oh, turn those sweet eyes unto me;    To my bosom now creep, I will sing thee to sleep,    And kiss from thy lid the sad tear.

This innocent flower, which those rude cliffs unfold, Is thou, love, the joy of this earth,But the rock that it springs from, so flinty and cold, Is thy father that gave thee thy birth.        Then, come to me, &c.

The dews that now hang on the cheek of the eve, And the winds that do mournfully cry,Are the sighs and the tears of the youth thou must leave, To lie down in these deserts to die.        Then, come to me, &c.