The Russian Lover.

A poem by Thomas Moore

Fleetly o'er the moonlight snows
Speed we to my lady's bower;
Swift our sledge as lightning goes,
Nor shall stop till morning's hour.
Bright, my steed, the northern star
Lights us from yon jewelled skies;
But to greet us, brighter far,
Morn shall bring my lady's eyes.
Lovers, lulled in sunny bowers,
Sleeping out their dream of time,
Know not half the bliss that's ours,
In this snowy, icy clime.
Like yon star that livelier gleams
From the frosty heavens around,
Love himself the keener beams
When with snows of coyness crowned.
Fleet then on, my merry steed,
Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale;--
What can match a lover's speed?
See, 'tis daylight, breaking pale!
Brightly hath the northern star
Lit us from yon radiant Skies;
But, behold, how brighter far
Yonder shine my lady's eyes!

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