The night was still,—the air was balm,
Soft dews around were weeping;
No whisper rose o’er ocean’s calm,
Its waves in light were sleeping,
With Mary on the beach I stray’d;
The stars beam’d joy above me;
I prest her hand and said, “sweet maid
“Oh tell me do you love me?”
With modest air she diooped her head,
Her cheek of beauty veiling;
Her bosom heav’d.—no word she said;
I mark’d her strife of feeling;
“Oh speak mv doom dear maid,” I cried,
“By yon bright Heaven above thee;”
She gently raised her eyes and sighed,
“Too well you know I love thee.”