I like to hear of wealth and gold,
And El Doradoes in their glory;
I like for silks and satins bold
To sweep and rustle through a story.

The nightingale is sweet of song;
The rare exotic smells divinely;
And knightly men who stride along,
The role heroic carry finely.

But then, upon the other hand,
Our minds have got a way of running
To things that aren't quite so grand,
Which, maybe, we are best in shunning.

For some of us still like to see
The poor man in his dwelling narrow,
The hollyhock, the bumblebee,
The meadow lark, and chirping sparrow.

We like the man who soars and sings
With high and lofty inspiration;
But he who sings of common things
Shall always share our admiration.

Weep not too much, my darling;
Sigh not too oft for me;
Say not the face of Nature
Has lost its charms for thee.
I have enough of anguish
In my own breast alone;
Thou canst not ease the burden, love,
By adding still thy own.

I know the faith and fervour
Of that true heart of thine;
But I would have it hopeful
As thou wouldst render mine.
At night when I lie waking,
More soothing it will be
To say, 'She slumbers calmly now,'
Than say, 'She weeps for me.'

When through the prison-grating
The holy moon-beams shine,
And I am wildly longing
To see the orb divine;
Not crossed, deformed, and sullied,
By those relentless bars
That will not show the crescent moon,
And scarce the twinkling stars,

It is my only comfort
To think, that unto thee
The sight is not forbidden,
The face of Heaven is free.
If I could think Zerona
Is gazing upward now;
Is gazing with a tearless eye,
A calm, unruffled brow;

That moon upon her spirit
Sheds sweet, celestial balm,—
The thought, like Angel's whisper,
My misery would calm.
And when, at early morning,
A faint flush comes to me
Reflected from those glowing skies
I almost weep to see;

Or when I catch the murmur
Of gently swaying trees,
Or hear the louder swelling
Of the soul-inspiring breeze,
And pant to feel its freshness
Upon my burning brow,
Or sigh to see the twinkling leaf,
And watch the waving bough;

If from those fruitless yearnings
Thou wouldst deliver me,
Say that the charms of Nature
Are lovely still to thee.
While I am thus repining,
Oh! let me but believe,
'These pleasures are not lost to her,'
And I will cease to grieve.

Oh! scorn not Nature's bounties:
My soul partakes with thee!
Drink bliss from all her fountains:
Drink for thyself and me!
Say not,'My soul is buried
In dungeon gloom with thine';
But say, 'His heart is here with me,
His spirit drinks with mine!'