By Mrs. M. Hartog
Come love, come love, come love with me,
Thou art dear to this heart as the flower to the bee,
More sweet than his mate’s gentle notes
to the dove,
Are thine unto me, mine own, mine own love.
Thy cheek the red rose of
Sharon outvies,
And darker than night are thine antelope eyes;
And the raven black curls that around thy brow twine,
Resemble the clusters of yon clinging vine.
My father’s home stands
upon Mount Olivet,
And oh, ’tis a fair and a grand one, but yet,
One charm it still wants to endear it to me,
Its beauty is worthless unshared, love, by thee.
The might and the power
of Israel are gone,
Shalmaneser hath made her proud palaces lone;
Oh tarry not here, then, in sorrow and danger,
Exposed to the wiles of the Pagan and stranger.
<<539>>Thy matchless perfections
will lure them to thee,
Then come, love, and shelter thy sorrows with me;
Though the maids of Jerusalem be wondrously fair,
There is none, that for beauty, with thee may compare.
Thou art dear to this
heart as the flower to the bee,
As the hart for the water-brooks, pant I for thee;
More dear than his mate’s gentle notes to the dove,
Are thine unto me, mine own, mine own love.
