And there should be the Indian birds,
With wings like their own sky;
And English songsters join with them
The music of their sigh.
And we would have a fountain tuned
As if a lute were there,
And yielding forth, in sound, the sweets
Caught from the rose-filled air.
And there should be a coral cave
Close by the ocean side,
Lighted with spar, and just a home
For some young sea-god's bride.
Here we would pass the noon: each shell
Upon the sea-beach thrown
Should send forth music, and each one
Should have a differing tone.
And we would sometimes see the world—
Just see enough to bless,
Amid its tumult, strife, and wrong,
Our own calm happiness.
But this is very vain to dream
Of what may never be;
I have enow or spells, when Love
Has thrown his spell round me.
In truth, dear love! there's but one spell
That has a thought of mine—
That of affection's gentlest charm,
To make and keep me thine. L. E. L.
