And yet it rains, so shew’d their eyes their tears.”
MOORE’S MELODIES.
“I flew to her chamber, ’twas lonely,
As if the loved tenant lay dead;
Ah, would it were death and death only!
But no, the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss;
While the hand that had waked it so often,
Now throbb’d to a proud rival’s kiss.”