Through paths of rose her footstep strays;
Love, Hope, and Joy are in her gaze;
Till on her couch the morning beam
Dissolves the heart's delicious dream.
HOU art lovelier than the coming
Of the fairest flowers of spring,
When the wild bee wanders humming,
Like a blessed fairy thing:
Thou art lovelier than the breaking
Of the orient crimson'd morn,
When the gentlest winds are shaking
The dewdrops from the thorn.
I have seen the wild flowers springing
In wood, and field, and glen,
Where a thousand birds were singing,
And my thoughts were of thee then ;
For there's nothing gladsome round me,
Nothing beautiful to see,
Since thy beauty's spell has bound me,
But is eloquent of thee.
And is it not thus
With each hope of the heart?
With all its best feelings
Thus will they depart.
They'll go forth to the world
On the wings of the air,
Rejoicing and hoping;
But what will be there?
False lights to deceive,
False friends to delude,
Till the heart, in its sorrow,
Left only to brood
Over feeling crush'd, chill'd,
Sweet hopes ever flown;
Like that tree when its green leaves
And blossoms are gone.
'IS done! and shivering in the gale,
The bark unfurls her snowy sail; And whistling o'er the bending mast, Loud sings on high the freshening blastAnd I must from this land be gone, Because I cannot love but one.
But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen-
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes bless'd,
I should not seek another zone,
Because I cannot love but one.
'Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again;
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.
As some lone bird without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate ;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face:
And e'en in crowds I'm still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.
And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home:
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne'er shall find a resting-place
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, But ever love, and love but one.
The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where friendship's or love's softer glow
May smile in joy or sooth in woe ;
But friend or lover I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.
I go! but wheresoe'er I flee,
There's not an eye will weep for me;
There's not a kind congenial heart
Where I can claim the meanest part;
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.
To think of every early scene
Of what we are, and what we've been-
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe;
But mine, alas! has stood the blow-
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
And who that dear loved one may be
Is not for vulgar eyes to see;
And why that love was early cross'd,
Thou knowest the best-I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.
i've tried another's fetters too,
With charms, perchance, as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well-
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
'Twould sooth to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him who wanders o'er the deep,-
Though wheresoe'er my bark may run,
I love but thee-I love but one.
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