I love it, I love it; and who shall dare

On what strange stuff Ambition feeds.

How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start When Memory plays an old tune on the heart.

Better build school-rooms for "the boy," Than cells and gibbets for "the man."

Song like a rose should be; Each rhyme a petal sweet; For fragrance, melody, That when her lips repeat The words, her heart may know What secret makes them so:—

And also there’s a little star So white a virgin’s it must be:— Perhaps the lamp my love in heaven Hangs out to light the way for me.

O fairest of the feather’d train! For whom I sing, for whom I burn, Attend with pity to my strain, And grant my love a kind return.