_"Russian Air."_
The maid who wove the rosy wreath
With every flower--hath wrought a spell,
And though her chaplets fragrance breathe
And balmy sweets--I know full well,
'Neath every bud, or blossom gay,
There lurks a chain--Love's tyranny.
Though round her ruby lips, enshrin'd,
Sits stillness, soft as evening skies--
Though crimson'd cheek you seldom find,
Or glances from her downcast eyes--
There lurks, unseen, a world of charms,
Which ne'er betray young Love's alarms.
O trust not to her silent tongue;
Her settled calm, or absent smile;
Nor dream that nymph, so fair and young,
May not enchain in Love's soft guile;
For where Love is--or what's Love's spell--
No mortal knows--no tongue can tell.