Song. To Almeria

THOUGH since I lov'd an age is flown,
The blissful hour you still postpone;
Ah! lovely Maid, no longer frown,
But each fond hope with rapture crown.

Nor think, though lur'd by Angel charms,
That Time will linger in thy arms;
Oh! no; his scythe shall crop the rose
That on thy cheek divinely blows.

But ere the russian riot there,
To Nature yield, enchanting fair;
Nor more my ardent wish reprove,
For know, Life's richest boon is Love.