She was a simple cottage-girl,
But lovely as a poet's richest thought
Of woman's beauty--and as false as fair.
I've writhed beneath the witchery of her voice
As cornfields palpitate beneath the breeze--
Have sued with praying hands--lavished my life
Upon her image, as the bright stars pour
Their trembling splendours on the cold-heart lake--
Wounded my manliness upon the rock
Of her too fatal beauty, like a storm
That twines with sobbing fondness round the neck
Of some sky-kissing hill, bursts in his love,
Then slowly droops and flows about her feet
A puling streamlet,--whilst a gilded cloud
Is toying with the brow of his Beloved!
'Twas gold that sear'd the love-bud of her heart;
To bitter ashes turned my life's sweet fruit;
And sent my soul adrift upon the world
A wandering, worthless wreck.