Song -

Eliza Acton

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I turn from pleasures witching tone,
Though sweet the syren-strain may be
And wander silently, and lone,
To think, my own best love! on thee.

There's not a radiant blossom hung
On lowly stem, or lofty tree;
There's not a beam of beauty flung
Around me, but I think of thee.

And never doth the gentle ev'n
Shed her soft calm o'er earth and sea,
Lighting the golden stars of heav'n,
But tenderly I think of thee.

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