Page:Literary Souvenir 1825.pdf/6

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My unrequited tenderness Living on its own sweet excess. Oh! I have blushed to hear my song Borne on the tide of praise along: But deem not, dear one, only praise The colour on my cheek could raise; I blushed to think that thou might'st hear My song of passion's timid fear; That with the words a thought might steal Of all I felt, of all I feel.

On to my tale: it tells of one Who loved not more than I have done: That deep and lonely faith which bears With chance, and change, and lapse of years; Turns like the floweret to the sun, Content with being shone upon; Although its gift of light and air The meanest with itself may share.

The moon hath shed her gentlest light On the Garonne's blue wave to-night, No wind disturbs, no ripple jars The mirror, over which the stars Linger like beauties. O'er the tide, But noiseless, all the white sails glide. Around are the green hills, where cling The Autumn's purple gathering;