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YES, yes my swain, thy faithful wife's prepar'd |
To hie to that dear cot thy hands have rear'd. |
Tho there the way-worn pilgrim can't behold The Cornich blazing with the fretted gold; |
Altho no damask curtain gives the day Its crimson tint, and sheds the purple ray; |
Altho no surly porter stands in state To guard the sumptuous and unsocial gate; |
Tho thousand and ten thousand trivial things Which Lux'ry and her sister Folly brings, |
Be wanting there - yet there! |
Yet there I'll find That richest furniture! |
A quiet mind. |
With my own swain, unsever'd from my side, Adown the stream of life I'll joyous glide. |
Tho the brown horrors of the nodding wood -- Or -- brilliant landscapes dance upon the flood; |
Thro each vicissitude I'll boldly steer, |
Whilst Thou my love, my life, my all, art near. |
Yes yes, my swain thy faithful wife will go, With Thee thro summers heat, |
or winter's snow: |
Where'er high Heav'n and you point out the way Nor wish, nor ask, a moment's fond delay. |
Clung to thy arm, with brighter scenes in view |
I'll catch thy flame & feel thy raptures too! |
To that dear cot thy hands have rear'd I'll hie, |
Live with my swain & with my swain will die. |
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Email: Mary S. Van Deusen Copyright © 2014, InterMedia Enterprises |