Behold, my fair, where'er we rove

Behold, my fair, where'er we rove, What dreary prospects round us rise; The naked hill, the leafless grove, The hoary ground, the frowning skies.

Not only through the wasted plain, Stern winter, is thy force confess'd; Still wider spreads thy horrid reign, I feel thy pow'r usurp my breast.

Enlivening hope, and fond desire Resign the heart to spleen and care; Scarce frighted love maintains his fire, And rapture saddens to despair.

Tir'd with vain joys and false alarms, With mental and corporeal strife, Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms, And screen me from the ills of life.

A Lovely rose my Henry brought, And smiling plac'd it on my breast; I kept the gift, but little thought It would deprive me of my rest

I think my love you did not mean To wound this heart or give it pain; Alike to you it was unseen, You knew not what it did contain.

Oh! then beware, nor touch that tree From whence you took that poison'd flow'r; Lest you should suffer pain like me, And wounded own its hidden pow'r.