To Lyra
Written at Fifteen Years Old.
By Idalia’s secret grove—
By the streams so dear to love—
By the beds, and fragrant bow’rs,
Fram’d from Flora’s brightest flow’rs—
By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
Tell me!—dost thou love me, dear?
By the transports of the lyre,
Bursting forth in hallow’d fire—
By thy tongue’s celestial lay,
Melting all the soul away—10
By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
Tell me!—dost thou love me, dear?
By the passion-breathing sigh,
When youthful rapture rises high—
By the drop of glist’ning dew,
In thine eye of violet blue—
By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
Tell me!—dost thou love me, dear?
By thy bosom’s heaving snow—
By thine orb’s averted glow—20
By this lovely hand of thine,
Trembling, thrilling, now in mine—
By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
Tell me!—dost thou love me, dear?