'Tis Not the Rose Upon the Cheek

'Tis not the rose upon the cheek,
Nor eyes in langour soft that roll,
That fix the lover's timid glance,
And fire his wilder'd soul.

But 'tis the eye that swims in tears,
Diffusing soft a joy all holy;
So soothing to the heart of love,
And yet so melancholy.

The note that falters on the tongue,
Sweet as the dying voice of eve,
That calms the throbbing breast of pain,
Yet makes it love to grieve!

The hand, alternate fiery warm
And icy cold, the bursting sigh,
The look that hopes, yet seems to fear,
Pale cheek and burning eye.

These, these the magic circle twine,
The lover's thoughts and feelings seize;
'Till scarce a son of earth he seems,
But lives in what he sees.