SONG

YOUR heart is a music-box, dearest!
With exquisite tunes at command,
Of melody sweetest and clearest,
If tried by a delicate hand;
But its workmanship, love, is so fine,
At a single rude touch it would break;
Then, oh! be the magic key mine,
Its fairy-like whispers to wake.
And there's one little tune it can play,
That I fancy all others above,-
You learned it of Cupid one day,-
It begins with and ends with "I love!" "I love!"
My heart echoes to it "I love!"