Page:The Literary Souvenir for 1825.pdf/89



CHRISTINE.

, cannot change my tone, My lute must breathe what is its own; It is my own heart that has taught My constancy of mournful thought. Tell me not of Spring's sunshine hour, I have but known its blight and shower; And blame me not, that thus I dwell On love's despair, and hope's farewell. I know not what this life may be; I feel but what it is to me. My gift of song, let others claim The golden violets of fame, I would but have it breathe to thee My deep and lone fidelity;