WHO calls me bold because I won my love,
And did not pine,
And waste my life with secret pain, but strove
To make him mine?

I us’d no arts; ’t was Nature’s self that taught
My eye to speak,
And bid the burning blush to paint unsought
My flashing cheek;

That made my voice to tremble when I bid
My love “Goodby,”
So weak that every other sound was hid,
Except a sigh.

Oh, was it wrong to use the truth I knew,
That hearts are mov’d,
And spring warm-struck with life and love anew,
By being lov’d?

One night there came a tear, that, big and loth,
Stole ’neath my brow.
’T was thus I won my heart’s own heart, and both
Are happy now.