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Poem by George Pope Morris
When life looks drear and lonely, love, And pleasant fancies flee, Then will the Muses only, love, Bestow a thought on me! Mine is a harp which Pleasure, love, To waken strives in vain; To Joy's entrancing measure, love, It ne'er can thrill again!Ч Why mock me, Bessy Bell? Oh, do not ask me ever, love, For rapture-woven rhymes; For vain is each endeavor, love, To sound Mirth's play-bell chimes! Yet still believe me, dearest love, Though sad my song may be, This heart still dotes sincerest, love, And grateful turns to theeЧ My once fond Bessy Bell! Those eyes still rest upon me, love! I feel their magic spell! With that same look you won me, love, Fair, gentle Bessy Bell! My doom you've idly spoken, love, You never can be mine! But though my heart is broken, love, Still, Bessy, it is thine! Adieu, false Bessy Bell!
George Pope Morris
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