There if we find the sigh, the tear,
They are not those to sorrow known;
But breathe so soft, and drop so clear,
That bliss may claim them for her own.
Then give me, give me, while I weep,
The sanguine hope that brightens woe,
And teaches even our tears to keep
The tinge of pleasure as they flow.
The child who sees the dew of night
Upon the spangled hedge at morn,
Attempts to catch the drops of light,
But wounds his finger with the thorn.
Thus oft the brightest joys we seek,
Are lost when touched, and turned to pain;
The flush they kindle leaves the cheek,
The tears they waken long remain.
But give me, give me, etc.
* * * * *
To sigh, yet feel no pain.
To weep, yet scarce know why;
To sport an hour with Beauty's chain,
Then throw it idly by;
To kneel at many a shrine,
Yet lay the heart on none;
To think all other charms divine,
But those we just have won;
This is love, careless love,
Such as kindleth hearts that rove.
To keep one sacred flame,
Thro' life unchilled, unmoved,
To love in wintry age the same
As first in youth we loved;
To feel that we adore
To such refined excess.
That tho' the heart would break with _more_,
We could not live with _less_;
This is love, faithful love,
Such as saints might feel above.
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