106
miscellaneous poems.
My own—(they sound so pleasantly, those two sweet little words,)
Far sweeter than the merry call of summer-wooing birds;
For, oh! a depth of tenderness is in their very tone,
Whenever you have welcomed me, by calling me thine own.
Still call me so, beloved—and now adieu, adieu,
'Tis pleasant writing those few lines to be perused by you;
Tho' worldly cares may weary thee—those toils and troubles o'er—
Come rest upon a faithful heart, and never doubt me more.
Far sweeter than the merry call of summer-wooing birds;
For, oh! a depth of tenderness is in their very tone,
Whenever you have welcomed me, by calling me thine own.
Still call me so, beloved—and now adieu, adieu,
'Tis pleasant writing those few lines to be perused by you;
Tho' worldly cares may weary thee—those toils and troubles o'er—
Come rest upon a faithful heart, and never doubt me more.
TO ———
Thy mellow voice is still upon mine ear,
Sweet as the murmuring of the distant brake,
Nature's wild melody, when soft and clear,
Light zephyr bids its harmony awake.
Sweet as the murmuring of the distant brake,
Nature's wild melody, when soft and clear,
Light zephyr bids its harmony awake.
