No lute's enchanting minstrelsy!
No magic chords awake for me!

For my music I demand
Finger raised of moving hand;
Bowing head, and lips comprest,
That murmur not, though scarce at rest,
And with every varied rhyme
Mark the thought and mete the time;
Forehead, which the tender vein
With a violet streak doth stain,
Shaded by the brown lock's maze,
--For my spell forbids to raise
The white hand, that would repress
And reprove each truant tress--
Lest it break the deep suspense
Of delighted thought intense.
O'er the snowy forehead flit
Gleams, that do illumine it,
Swift they come, and swift they flee
Felt by her, and felt by me,
Fain, methinks, would they repose
On that bed of placid snows,
But must fly like glancing thought,
For repose is suffered not.

I too challenge from thine eyes
Sympathy and sweet surprise,
--Eyes that smile because they must,
Yet the smile speaks half distrust.