Page:Literary Souvenir 1827.pdf/9



deem'st thou that my heart could be A trifle and a toy for thee; A trophy, to be wooed and won; Taken but to be trampled on!

And deem'st thou that my heart would spring, A young bird on its summer wing, To be one moment caged in thine, Then left, poor prisoner, to pine.

You knew me not if you could deem I should weep o'er a vanished dream; The willow was not made for me, My wreath is of the aspen tree.

There is in southern lands a breeze Which sweeps with changeless course the seas; Fixed to one point, oh, faithful gale, Thou art not for my wandering sail!