And love still drinks her soul, and naught can give relief.
She decks her long, black hair with gayest flowers
And tries each girlish art to warm his breast,
And, straying oft, among the leafy bowers,
Whilst Luna's silvery smiles upon them rest,
And Earth sleeps deeply, in that beauty drest,
The lonely Muckawiss[B], with doleful strain,
Pities her fate—alas, she is not blest,
But hopes and doubts, and dares to hope again,
That Smith may love, and ne'er is free from love's soft pain.