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What wert thou, maid?—thy life—thy name
Oblivion hides in mystery;
Though from thy face my heart could frame
A long romantic history.
Oblivion hides in mystery;
Though from thy face my heart could frame
A long romantic history.
Transported to thy time I seem,
Though dust thy coffin covers—
And hear the songs, in fancy's dream,
Of thy devoted lovers.
Though dust thy coffin covers—
And hear the songs, in fancy's dream,
Of thy devoted lovers.
How witching must have been thy breath—
How sweet the living charmer—
Whose every semblance after death
Can make the heart grow warmer!
How sweet the living charmer—
Whose every semblance after death
Can make the heart grow warmer!
Adieu, the charms that vainly move
My soul in their possession—
That prompt my lips to speak of love,
Yet rob them of expression.
My soul in their possession—
That prompt my lips to speak of love,
Yet rob them of expression.
Yet thee, dear picture, to have praised
Was but a poet's duty;
And shame to him that ever gazed
Impassive on thy beauty.
Was but a poet's duty;
And shame to him that ever gazed
Impassive on thy beauty.
