THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
147
Earth's fair are her fleeting things;
Heaven, too, lends her angels wings.
What can charms to pleasure give,
Such as being fugitive?
Thus with love: oh! never try
Further than a blush or sigh;
Blush gone with the clouds that share it,
Sigh pass'd with the winds that bear it.
But met she then young Vidal’s eye,
His half-sad, half-reproachful sigh:
His Isabelle! and could she be
Votaress of inconstancy?
As if repentant of her words,
Blushing she bent her o'er the chords;
L 2
