Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Lake is at Rest
The Lake Is at Rest.
The lake is at rest, love,
The sun's on its breast, love;
How bright is its water, how pleasant to see!
Its verdant banks showing
The richest flowers blowing—
A picture of bliss, and an emblem of thee.
The sun's on its breast, love;
How bright is its water, how pleasant to see!
Its verdant banks showing
The richest flowers blowing—
A picture of bliss, and an emblem of thee.
Then oh! fairest maiden,
When earth is arrayed in
The beauties of heaven, o'er mountain and lea;
Let me still delight in
The glories that brighten,
For they are, dear Anna, sweet emblems of thee.
When earth is arrayed in
The beauties of heaven, o'er mountain and lea;
Let me still delight in
The glories that brighten,
For they are, dear Anna, sweet emblems of thee.
But, Anna! why redden?
I would not, fair maiden,
My tongue could pronounce what might tend to betray
The traitor; the demon
Who could deceive woman,
His soul's all unfit for the glories of day.
I would not, fair maiden,
My tongue could pronounce what might tend to betray
The traitor; the demon
Who could deceive woman,
His soul's all unfit for the glories of day.
Believe me then, fairest,
To me thou art dearest;
And though I in raptures view lake, stream, and tree—
With flower-blooming mountains,
And crystalline fountains,
I view them, fair maid, but as emblems of thee.
To me thou art dearest;
And though I in raptures view lake, stream, and tree—
With flower-blooming mountains,
And crystalline fountains,
I view them, fair maid, but as emblems of thee.