Stoop'd to the heart now almost broken.
It haunts me with the deep, low tones,
That stir'd my soul to more than gladness
When we seemed in the world, alone,
And joy grew deep almost to sadness.
Is there no charm to win thee back,
To wake the love thy pride is crushing?
Has mem'ry left no golden track—
No music which thy heart is hushing?
Is there within this little tress