A Perverse Lover

I trust thee from my soul, O Mary dear!
But oft, when Rapture hath its fullest power,
Hope treads too lightly for herself to hear;
And Doubt is ever by until the hour.
I trust thee, Mary, but till thou art mine
Up from thy foot unto thy golden hair,
Oh! let me still misgive thee and repine,
Uncommon fears spring up with blessings rare!
Thine eyes of purest love give surest sign,
Drooping with fondness, and thy blushes tell
A flitting tale of steadiest truth and zeal;
Yet I will doubt, to make success divine!
A tide of summer dreams with gentlest swell
Will bear upon me then, and I shall love most well!