Along St. George's Shore

If I were yonder wave, my dear,
And thou the isle it clasps around,
I would not let a foot come near
My land of bliss, my fairy ground.
If I were yonder couch of gold
And thou the pearl within it placed,
I would not let an eye behold
The sacred gem my arms embraced.

If I were yonder orange tree
And thou the blossom blooming there,
I would not yield a breath of thee
To scent the most imploring air.
Oh, bend not o'er the water's brink;
Give not the wave that odorous sigh;
Nor let its burning mirror drink
The soft reflection of thine eye.

That glossy hair, that glowing cheek,
So pictured in the waters seem
That I could gladly plunge to seek
Thy image in the glassy stream.
Blest fate! at once my chilly grave
And nuptial bed that stream might be;
I'd wed thee in its mimic wave
And die upon the shade of thee.
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