Poems (Eliza Gabriella Lewis)/Song (Come back! cried Cupid; 'tis not too late)
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For works with similar titles, see Song.
SONG.
Come, wreathe round my brow
Those pale, sweet flowers!
Were they not made for the festal hours,
When the cup, like a sparkling ruby glows,
And the rich red wine to the brim o'erflows,
And the heart, like a bird
From its thraldom free,
Flutters and carols so joyfully?
Then twine round my forehead those fragrant flowers,
They were made, like young beauty, for festal hours.
Those pale, sweet flowers!
Were they not made for the festal hours,
When the cup, like a sparkling ruby glows,
And the rich red wine to the brim o'erflows,
And the heart, like a bird
From its thraldom free,
Flutters and carols so joyfully?
Then twine round my forehead those fragrant flowers,
They were made, like young beauty, for festal hours.
Come, cheer up my fairest!
Each flowing curl
I will twine with a chaplet of snowy pearl;
Not a gem 'mid their raven hue must shine,—
Thou would'st dim them, my Love, with those orbs of thine!
Nay! shade not their beam
Mid the clear blue skies;—
When the bright sun sinks the pale flower dies!
Then twine round ray forehead those fragrant flowers,
They were made, like young beauty, for festal hours.
Each flowing curl
I will twine with a chaplet of snowy pearl;
Not a gem 'mid their raven hue must shine,—
Thou would'st dim them, my Love, with those orbs of thine!
Nay! shade not their beam
Mid the clear blue skies;—
When the bright sun sinks the pale flower dies!
Then twine round ray forehead those fragrant flowers,
They were made, like young beauty, for festal hours.