Love is that orbit of the restless soul

Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars, What but death bemocking folly?

"Freedom!" their battle-cry,— "Freedom! or leave to die!"

Lovers are Like walking ghosts, they always haunt the spot Of their misdeeds.

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.