I know it embodies some very sweet things, And can almost divine the low burden it sings; But again, and again, and still ever again, It has died on my ear at the touch of my pen. And so it keeps courting and shunning my quest, As a bird that has just been aroused from her nest, Too fond to depart, and too frightened to stay, Now circles about you, now flutters away. Oh! give me fit words for that exquisite song, And thou couldst not, proud beauty! be obdurate long; It would come like the voice of a saint from above, And win thee to kindness, and melt thee to love. Not gilded with fancy, nor frigid with art, But simple as feeling, and warm as the heart, It would murmur my name with so charming a tone, As would almost persuade thee to wish it thine own. Madeline O lady! if, until this hour, I've gazed in those bewildering eyes, Yet never owned their touching power, But when thou couldst not hear my sighs; It has not been that love has slept One single moment in my soul, Or that on lip or look I kept A stern and stoical control; But that I saw, but that I felt, In every tone and glance of thine, Whate'er they spoke, where'er they dwelt, How small, how poor a part was mine; And that I deeply, dearly knew, THAT hidden, hopeless love confessed, The fatal words would lose me, too, Even the weak friendship I possessed. And so, I masked my secret well; The very love within my breast Became the strange, but potent spell By which I forced it into rest. Yet there were times--I scarce know how These eager lips refrained to speak,-- Some kindly smile would light thy brow, And I grew passionate and weak; The secret sparkled at my eyes, And love but half repressed its sighs,-- Then had I gazed an instant more, Or dwelt one moment on that brow, I might have changed the smile it wore, To what perhaps it weareth now, And spite of all I feared to meet, Confessed that passion at thy feet. To save my heart, to spare thine own, There was one remedy alone. I fled, I shunned thy very touch,-- It cost me much, O God! how much! But if some burning tears were shed, Lady! I let them freely flow; At least, they left unbreathed, unsaid, A worse and wilder woe.