Mild beam'd the sun on the Grey tow'rs of Roslin, Gay bloom'd the wild flow'rs amid the lone glade, Sweet sang the woodlark the Mavis and linnet, As down the steep bank with Eliza I stray'd. Tho' milder her face, than the mild blushing morning, Gayer her bloom than the flow'rs varied dye, Sweeter her song than the soft throated linnet's, My heart still was wand'ring my breast heav'd a sigh. Why why did it wander? ah! why did it flutter? Why rose in my bosom, such throbs and alarms? Was there fairer than she amid the lone valley, More witching in graces, more blooming in charms? More fair than Eliza ne'er tript thro' the greenwood; With the loveliest of Scotia's fair maids she would vie In shape, grace and beauty, and easy good humour. Why wander'd my heart then, ah! why did it sigh? Was't the soft dimpling smiles, or the Blushes of Helen That young opening rosebud, which caus'd it to stray? Was't her blue rolling eye, or her lips like the cherry, In my heart rais'd such tumults and stole it away? It ws not her smiles it was not her blushes, It was not the glance of her love-beaming eye, It was not - But sure ah! too sure it was Helen; For still in her absence my breast heav'd a sigh. With her through the valley of life I would wander, In her soft breast unbosom each hope and each fear; Each joy would be rapture, with Helen to share it, Each woe would be soften'd by sympathy's tear. The years might roll on, but with bliss still encreasing, The years would be moments- till the moments draw nigh When her presence would be like an angel's to cheer me, To soothe my last sorrow, to hear my last sigh.
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