Here's to her

Here's to her, who wore
The myrtle wreath, that bound me;
Here's to her, who bore
The twine of bay, that crowned me—
O! had not her light
So brightly shone upon me,
Still the cloud of night
Had darkly brooded on me;
There was in her eye
A spirit, that inspired me;
Still to do or die,
The electric sparkle fired me;
And though the ice of death
Should chill the heart within me,
The music of her breath
Back to life again would win me;
So here's to her, who wore
The myrtle wreath, that bound me;
The girl, who kindly bore
The twine of bay, that crowned me.

No more the iron chain
Of doubt and fear enthrals me;
I lift my wing again,
For 't is her voice that calls me:
Still higher, higher still,
In search of glory soaring,
I feel my bosom thrill
To the song her voice is pouring;
And though I stretch my flight,
Where Heaven alone is o'er me,
I see her form of light
Still floating on before me:
O! when foes the direst move
In columns to assail us,
Let us hear the voice of love,
And our courage cannot fail us:
So here's to her, &c.

And when my drowsy soul
A heedless moment slumbers,
Away the vapours roll
At the magic of her numbers;
Back to life again I start,
At her thrilling summons waking,
Every link, that bound my heart
Down to earth, indignant breaking;
Then I follow, where she flies,
Like a shooting star, before me,
And her fascinating eyes
Shed their fire in flashes o'er me:
O! cold the heart, could sleep,
When her silver trumpet called it,
And the soul, that would not leap,
When her flowery chain enthralled it:
So here's to her who wore
The myrtle wreath that bound me;
The girl, who kindly bore
The twine of bay that crowned me.