THE SONG OF LOVE.
WITH bosom weary and sad,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A maiden sat, in maidenly grace,
Thinking o'er pleasures dead.
Sigh! sigh! sigh!
In misery, sorrow, and tears,
She sang, in a voice of melody,
The plaintive song of her fears.
Love! love! love!
Whilst the birds are waking from rest;
And love! love! love!
Till the sun sinks in the west;
It's oh! to be in the grave,
Where hope's false dream is not,
Where doubts ne'er rise to bedim the eyes,
If this is woman's lot!
Here follow nine more verses in an equally plaintive style, and of no particular interest.
From The Figaro, February 28, 1874.