Poems (Eliza Gabriella Lewis)/Nay say not so, beloved
"My spirit turns to thee, and, bird-like, flings
Its best, its breath, its spring, and song o'er thee."
Its best, its breath, its spring, and song o'er thee."
Nay, say not so, beloved—oh! do me not such wrong,—
I've loved you very fondly—Pm sure I've loved you long;
My bosom has a hidden fount—a fount of hope and love;
Affection deeply lies, but hope is sparkling far above.
Oh! do not cloud its cheerfulness, by deeming me untrue;
Hope, dimm'd, throws on poor love below, a sad and sombre hue.
Oh! give me back thine own sweet smile, thy look of careless glee,
When eyes are bright and smiles are light, life glides so cheerily.
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.
I've loved you very fondly—Pm sure I've loved you long;
My bosom has a hidden fount—a fount of hope and love;
Affection deeply lies, but hope is sparkling far above.
Oh! do not cloud its cheerfulness, by deeming me untrue;
Hope, dimm'd, throws on poor love below, a sad and sombre hue.
Oh! give me back thine own sweet smile, thy look of careless glee,
When eyes are bright and smiles are light, life glides so cheerily.
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.