I have been gazing on thee, Genevieve,
And musing, in my love, if thou must die;
And I have thought it were not well to grieve
At thy most delicate frame and lustrous eye;
For as a harp is broken, when the finger
That knew its cunning hath forgot to play,
Thou wouldst not, for that frail confinement, linger,
When it was time for thee to pass away;
And therefore am I glad, that when my heart
To thy enquiring tenderness is hushed,
And thine endearments from mine eyes depart,
’Twill be enough for thee that life hath gushed,
Gently to loose the silver cord, and die,
And with me in my place of slumber lie.