Breeze of the morn’ ! so fresh and sweet,
Wilt thou my blooming mistress greet;
And, nestling in her glossy hair,
My tenderest thoughts, my love, declare ?
Wilt thou, while ‘mid her tresses sporting,
Their odorous balm, their perfume courting,
Say to that soul-seducing maid,
In grief how prostrate I am laid !
And gently whisper in her ear
This message, with an accent clear :—
‘ Thy form is ever in my sight,
In thought by day, in dreams by night;
For one, in spirits sad and broken,
That mole would be the happiest token ;
That mole which adds to every look
A magic spell I cannot brook ;
For he who sees thy melting charms,
And does not feel his soul in arms,
Bursting with passion, rapture, all
That speak love’s deepest, wildest thrall,
Must be, as Kaf ‘s ice-summit, cold,
And, haply, scarce of human mould.
Let him, unmoved by charms like thine,
His worthless life at once resign—
Those lips are sugar, heavenly sweet;
O let but mine their pouting meet!
The balsam of delight they shed ;
Their radiant colour ruby-red.
The Evil eye has struck my heart,
But thine in beauty sped the dart :
Thus many a flower, of richest hue,
Hath fall’n and perish’d where it grew;
Thy beauty is the sun in brightness,
Thy form a Peri’s self in lightness ;
A treasure thou, which, poets say,
The heavens would gladly steal away—
Too good, too pure, on earth to stay !’