The hour of Love.
[Andrew Mercer.]
When the fair one, and the dear one—
Her lover by her side,—
Strays or sits, as fancy flits,
Where yellow streamlets glide;
Gleams illuming—flowers perfuming—
Where'er her footsteps rove;
Time beguiling with her smiling,
O that's the hour of love!
When the fair one, and the dear one,
Amid a moon-light scene,—
Where grove and glade, and light and shade
Are all around serene—
Heaves the soft sigh of ecstacy,
While coos the turtle dove,
And in soft strains—appeals—complains—
O that's the hour of love!
Should the fair one, and the dear one,
The sigh of pity lend,
For human woe that presses low,
A stranger or a friend;
Tears descending, sweetly blending,
As down her cheeks they rove,
Beauty's charms in pity's arms;
O that's the hour of love!
When the fair one, and the dear one,
Appears in morning dreams,—
In flowing vest—by fancy drest,—
And all the angel beams!
The heavenly mien, and look serene,
Confess her from above;
While rising sighs, and dewy eyes,
Say, that's the hour of love!