No thought but that which wakes thy scorning?
Oh say, was there no happiness
Within thy breast that summer morning,
When from my brow the curl was shred
With hand that shook in joy, and terror;
And love, half hush'd in trembling dread,
Shrunk back, as if to feel were error?
My soul is filled with deep regret,
That I who loved thee so, could doubt thee!
Sweep back thy pride, forgive, forget!