252 THE WOOD LILY. 



For oh ! so much of truth was mine, 



So much of love beside, 

 I would in simple maidenhood 



Be thy own chosen bride ; — 

 Alas ! the russet robe no more 



Of rustic life may tell — 

 And thou dost say the velvet gear 



Becomes my beauty well. 



'Twas thy dear hand upon my brow, 



That bound each sparkling gem ; 

 But dearer far its slightest touch 



Than all the wealth of them. 

 Oh ! talk thou not of gorgeous robes 



Nor bind the jewel there ; 

 And tell me not with those cold eyes, 



That I am wondrous fair ; 



I gave thee all, the soul's high trust, 



Its truth by sorrow tried — 

 Nay start not thus, what hast thou given ? 



Alas ! 'tis but thy pride. 

 Oh ! give me back the tenderness. 



That blest my simple love, 

 And call me as in those dear days, 



Thine own, thy gentle dove. 



