Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/363



I envy the ring that encircles thy finger!— Dear daughter of beauty how happy were I If, by some sweet spell, like that ring, I might linger At ease in the light of thy heart-thrilling eye!

I would joy in the music thy light pulse is making, I would press the soft cheek where the rose-buds unfold— I would rest on the brow where pure thought's ever waking, And lovingly glide through thy tresses of gold.

On the ripe smiling lip which young Cupid is steeping In dews of love's day-dawn, I'd tenderly play— And when in thy innocence, sweet, thou wert sleeping, I'd watch thee, and bless thee, and guard thee for aye!