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FRANCIS FALUDI.
23
How idle on a rush to lean,
Though waving bright its stem of green!
For when the noisy tempest wakes,
How soon it bends! how trembling shakes!
And bows its head.
I leaned upon a treacherous rush;—
He turn'd away, without a blush,
To other maids: but I was young—
Truth in my spirit, on my tongue,
Without parade.
O smitten by high Heaven be he
Who gives his love to two, to three!
I love but one—and if he fail me,
O how could other love avail me!
Me—hapless maid!
