II.
Take far from me the wine-cup bright,
In hours of revelry;
It suits glad brows, and bosoms light,
It is not meet for me:
Oh! I can pledge the heart no more
I pledged in days gone by;
Sorrow hath touched my bosom’s core,
And I am left—to die!
Give me to drink of Lethe’s wave,
Give me the cold and cheerless grave,
O’er which the night-winds sigh!