Ballad.
If dear to thy heart, be the clear flowing burn,1
That wanders along the green heather ;2
Yet dearer to me is the dark roaring sea,3
When chafed by the stern wintry weather.4
If sweet to thy gaze be the morn’s rip’ning blush,5
’Midst fragrance and dew-drops descending ;6
More kind to mine eye is the cold fitful sky,7
With shadow and sunshine contending.8
While glad to thine ear is the greeting of friends,9
The laugh from each welcome rebounding,10
Chill apathy steals o’er my heart, as it feels11
Alone, though with hundreds surrounding.12
Still warm to thy bosom is Beauty’s first smile,13
Truth, fervor, and constancy breathing ;14
But alike to my view, eyes of hazel or blue,15
Glance cold as the snow’s pallid wreathing.16
The tide of my fancy in bitterness flows,17
Its source has been poison’d by sorrow ;18
While past pleasure to you, blooms as fresh and as new19
As each untried hope of the morrow:20
To prove that my feelings are aged as my years,21
Is daily my fruitless endeavour ;22
For, alas! from its smart, I know, my poor heart23
Beats as full and as youthful as ever.24