With tender vine-leaves wreathe thy brow,
And I shall fancy that I see,
In the bright eye that laughs below,
The dark grape on its parent tree.
'Tis but a whim--but, oh! entwine
Thy brow with this green wreath of mine.
Weave of the clover-leaves a wreath,
Fresh sparkling with a summer-shower,
And I shall, in my fair one's breath,
Find the soft fragrance of the flower.
'Tis but a whim--but, oh! do thou
Twine the dark leaves around thy brow.
Oh, let sweet-leaved geranium be
Entwined amidst thy clustering hair,
Whilst thy red lips shall paint to me,
How bright its scarlet blossoms are.
'Tis but a whim--but, oh! do thou
Crown with my wreath thy blushing brow.
Oh, twine young rose-leaves round thy head,
And I shall deem the flowers are there,--
The red rose on thy rich cheek spread,
The white upon thy forehead fair.
'Tis but a whim--but, oh! entwine
My wreath round that dear brow of thine.
_The Draught of Immortality, &c._
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