And tears his swimming eyeballs dim.
From twig to twig now skips the lover,
Filling the grove with accents kind,
On all sides roams the harmless rover,
Hoping his little friend to find.
Ah! vain that hope his grief is tasting,
Fate seems to scorn his faithful love,
And imperceptibly is wasting,
Wasting away, the little dove!
At length upon the grass he threw him,