Why that blush on Ella's cheek, What doth the flitting wanderer seek? Doth passion's blackening tempest scowl, To agitate my Ella's soul?
Return, sweet wanderer, fear no harm; The heart which Ella's breast doth warm, Is virtue's calm, serene retreat: And ne'er with passion's storm did beat.
Return, and calmly rest, till love Shall thy sweet efficacy prove; Then come, and thy loved place resume, And fill that cheek with youthful bloom.
A blush of nature charms the heart More than the brilliant tints of art; They please awhile, and please no more,— We hate the things we loved before.
But no unfading tints were those Which to my Ella's cheek arose: They please the raptured heart, and fly Before they pall the gazing eye.
'Twas not the blush of guilt or shame Which o'er my Ella's features came: 'Twas she who fed the poor distressed, 'Twas she the indigent had blessed;
For her their prayers to heaven were raised, On her the grateful people gazed; 'Twas when the blush suffused her cheek, Which told what words can never speak.
