No. II.
You say you would find
But one, and one only,
Who'd feel without you
That the revel was lonely:
That when you were near,
Time ever was fleetest,
And deem your loved voice
Of all music the sweetest.
Who would own her heart thine,
Though a monarch beset it,
And love on unchanged--
Don't you wish you may get it?
You say you would rove
Where the bud cannot wither;
Where Araby's perfumes
Each breeze wafteth thither.
Where the lute hath no string
That can waken a sorrow;
Where the soft twilight blends
With the dawn of the morrow;
Where joy kindles joy,
Ere you learn to forget it,
And care never comes--
Don't you wish you may get it?
* * * * *
"SYLLABLES WHICH BREATHE OF THE SWEET SOUTH."
JOEY HUME is about to depart for Switzerland: for, finding his flummery of
no avail at Leeds, we presume he intends to go to _Schaff_-hausen, to try
the _Cant_-on.