Oh! when shall the grave hide forever my sorrow?
Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell! and the coming to-morrow,
But brings with new torture, the curse of to-day.
2.
From my eye flows no tear, from my lips fall no curses,
I blast not the fiends, who have hurl'd me from bliss,
For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses,
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this—