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GENEVIEVE.
Bright as the summer's golden beam
Thy smiles were wont to be,
And placid as the rosy dream
Of careless infancy.
Then why that drooping downcast eye,
And wherefore dost thou grieve;
Why art thou struggling with a sigh
My pretty Genevieve?
So young, so lovely, and so blest,
What evil canst thou fear—
What thought disturbs thy guileless breast—
Why swells the starting tear?
Say, dost thou weep that there is woe
Thy tears may not relieve,
And do they for another flow,
My gentle Genevieve?
