Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/333



, begone thou truant tear That trembles on my cheek, And far away be born the sigh That more than words can speak.

And cease, my merry harp, to wake The song of former days, And perish all the minstrel lyre That framed these happy lays.

She loves me not who woke these strains, Then, wherefore should they be? True, she doth smile as she was wont, But doth she smile on me?

Her neck with kindly arch ne'er bends When listing to my song, Nor does her passion-moving lips The trembling notes prolong.