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Silence, beautiful voice
Be still, for you only trouble the mind
With a joy in which I cannot rejoice,
A glory I shall not find.
Still! I will hear you no more,
For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice
But to move to the meadow and fall before
Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore,
Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind,
Not her, not her, but a voice.



Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
My life, I love you.
By those tresses unconfined,
Wooed by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheek's blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
My life, I love you.
By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
My life, I love you.
Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!
My life, I love you.


Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phæbus' smiling looks doth grace:

Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline!
Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lillies neighbor nigh,
Within which bonds she balm encloses
Apt to entice a diety:

Heigh-ho, would she were mine!
Her neck is like a stately tower
Where Love himself imprisoned lies
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes;

Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline!
Her paps are centers of delight,
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where nature moulds the dew of light
To feed perfection with the same:

Heigh-ho, would she were mine!
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft of touch and sweet in view:

Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline!
Nature herself her shape admires;
The gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at he eyes his brand doth light:

Heigh-ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosaliue,
Since for a fair there's fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:

Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline! Heigh-ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!




Like to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines:
Of selfsame color is her hair,
Whether unfolded, or in twines:

Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline!
Her eyes are sapphiers set in snow,
Resembling Heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear when as they glow,
And I do tremble when I think

Heigh-ho, would she were mine!

I sat with Doris, the shepherd maiden:

Her crook was laden with wreathèd flowers;
I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheeling,

And shadows stealing, for hours and hours.
And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses

Wild summer roses of rare perfume, The while I sued her, kept hushed and hearkened

Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. She touched my shoulder with fearful finger:

She said, “We linger; we must not stay; My flock's in danger, my sheep will wander:

Behold them yonder-how far they stray!”

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