Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns

  One charm of feeling, one fond regret;

Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns

  Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.

    Ne'er hath a beam

    Been lost in the stream

  That ever was shed from thy form or soul;

    The spell of those eyes,

    The balm of thy sighs,

  Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl,

Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal

  One blissful dream of the heart from me;

Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

  The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

They tell us that love in his fairy bower,

  Had two blush-roses of birth divine;

He sprinkled the one with a rainbow shower,

  But bathed the other with mantling wine.

    Soon did the buds,

    That drank of the floods

  Distilled by the rainbow, decline and fade;

    While those which the tide

    Of ruby had dyed

  All blushed into beauty, like thee, sweet maid!

Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal

  One blissful dream of the heart from me;

Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

  The bowl but brightens my love for thee.