Since lost my hope of happiness
Look from this garden;—far below
Yon Andes' sides with verdure glow,
But far on high, the icy chill
Of winter glitters, glitters still:
I am that lonely verdure—thou
That mountain's cold, unchanging brow.
I'll ne'er upbraid thee—no—oh no!
For love is kind, in deepest woe,
I love thee still, and will till Death,