O fast her amber blood doth flow

Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest, Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to me— Come—this fond bosom, O faithfullest and fairest, Bleeds with its death-wound, its wound of love for thee!

Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air.

It is not Beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair.

Give me, instead of beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind, Which with temptation I could trust, Yet never linked with error find.

Half-buried to her flaming breast In this bright tree, she makes her nest, Hundred-sunned Phoenix! when she must Crumble at length to hoary dust!

The sunn must lend his goulden beames, Soft windes their breath, green trees their shade, Sweete fields their flowers, cleare springs their streams, Ere such another smyle bee made.