He coos no more with soft caresses,
No more is millet sought by him,
The dove his lonesome state distresses,
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,
Hid in his wing his beak and wept,
There ceased his sorrows to pursue him,
The little dove for ever slept.
His mate, now sad abroad and grieving,
Flies from a distance home again,
Sits by her friend, with bosom heaving,
And bids him wake with sorrowing pain.
She sighs, she weeps, her spirits languish,
Around and round the spot she goes,
Ah! charming Chloe's lost in anguish,
Her friend wakes not from his repose!
LAURA'S PRAYER.
As the harp's soft sighings in the silent valley,
To high heaven reaching, lifts thy pious prayer,
Laura, be tranquil! again with health shall nourish
Thy loved companion.
O! ye gods, behold fair Laura sunk in anguish,
Kneeling, O! behold her on the grassy hill,
Mild evening's sportive zephyrs gently embracing
Her golden ringlets.
Glist'ning with tears, her sad eyes to you she raises,
Her fair bosom heaving like the swelling wave,
Whilst in the solemn grove echo, clothed in darkness,
Repeats her accents.