This day to common love is dear,
And many a tale will sooth thine ear,
Fond hope or frolic wit to prove;
The theme of minstrelsy I change,
I bring a tribute new and strange.
A tale of hatred, not of love.

I love thee not! - did ever zeal
A rare miracle reveal,
Thy pity or thy mirth to move?
'Tis true; - for all thy faults I guess,
And strive to make thy beauties less-
What more is hate, if this be love?

Thy wit is false, for, when my cheek
Fades with the fear that cannot speak,
My pangs thy sparkling jest improve;
And, while I tremble, how much guile
Lurks in thy lip and points thy smile-
The smile which stings, yet wakens love!

Thine eye - a scorching fire is there;
For, though I chide, I never dare
The keenness of its flash to prove.
Thy voice has won the Elf-Harp's sound-
I hear it, and my tongue is bound,
Or wanders into words of love.

Behold thy faults! - yet keep them all,
That I my senses may recall,
When spell-bound in thy sphere they rove
My malice as thy pride is great-
There is no language fits my hate,
Unless it tells thee - that I love!