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Or gayer tulip, holds her radiant court—
But I want thine eyes, Love, with mine upon the sport.
Without thee, Beauty is not beautiful—I know
That when with thee I gaze upon a flower,
E'en though the frailest bud that bears the name,
To thee 'tis precious, and then dear to me;
Love hides a charmed gem beneath each leaf,
Giving them value in our partial eyes.
But when alone, though Persia's roses bend
In graceful fragrance o'er my garden path,
And I may cull them,—yet they seem less fair,
Their blush less soft, and their perfume less sweet,
Than when thou last did'st sportively enwreath
Roses from that same tree around my brow."
So murmured the fair Emmeline, and sighed—
And then, the very flowers she had dispraised
Would fain have twined amid her clust'ring hair,
But that another's hand was gently laid
Upon the blushing chaplet, which not then
Out-crimsoned her soft cheek. Another's eye
Gazed upon her's, that dropped their deep-fringed lids,
As though o'ercome by full and sudden joy,
Nor e'en glanced up, until a fervent kiss,
Stealing the tear which weighed the dark lash down,
Called a long look, half fondness, half reproof,
On that proud, happy listener.
