Their dainty bowers bent over you with shade,
All sweet with bursting buds and carolling birds,
What could you think of one who came and stript
Your life of this, the thing that so you prized?—
Alas, and what could I,—if any power
Should wrest from me my Haydn, all that soil
Where spring all hopes that bless my lonely hours,
And make it sweet for me to live my life,—
What could I think of her? Though you, Pauline,
You have not known and tired of many men.