Literary Gazette, 29th March 1823, Page 203-204
I'll meet thee at the midnight hour,
When their light the stars are weeping
O'er the roses of our bower,
In their pleasant odours sleeping.
Like a spirit I will glide,
Softly thy dear bosom seeking,
Till the eastern clouds are dyed
With the light of morning breaking.
Thou shalt bid thy fair hands rove
O'er thy soft lute's silver slumbers,
Waking sounds; of song and love
In their sweet Italian numbers.
Then I'll make for thy dark hair
A coronal of moonlit roses,
Every rose-blush but less-fair
Than that which on thy cheek reposes;
Or with thy heart so near mine
That I feel its every motion,
Many wild tales shall be thine
Of the wonders of the ocean.
But when morning comes I fly,
Like the stars, away from heaven,
Farewell plighted with one sigh,
One kiss, half stolen, half given.
By those eyes of dark beauty,
The spell of that sigh;
By the blush that now burns
Though thou art not nigh;
I would love thee as truly
As woman can love,
More dear than the light
From yon blue sky above;—
But I know that thy vows
Are too light to be true:
They are sweet as spring flowers,
And as perishing too!