But still to me more keen the anguish,
With secret grief my heart must swell,
That her for whom I ceaseless languish
I dare not of my passion tell.
No hope my cruel pain disarming,
I live a prey to ceaseless wo,
And Mary, sweet, and fair, and charming,
How much I love her does not know.
How shall I calm this bosom's raging?
O! how alleviate its smart?
Her tender look, all grief assuaging,
Alone can cure my wounded heart.
SONG.
How blest am I thy charms enfolding,
Cheerful thy smile as May's fair light,
As Paradise thine eyes are bright,
I all forget when thee beholding,--
Thou canst not think how sweet thou art.
Thy absence fills my soul with anguish,
Beloved one! hopeless of relief
I count the mournful hours in grief,
My heart for thee doth ceaseless languish,--
Thou canst not think how sweet thou art!
TO MARY.
Vainly, Mary, dost thou pray me
Heedless of thy charms to live,
If thou'dst have me, fair, obey thee,
Thou another heart must give.
One with stern indifference steeling,
That could know thee and be free,
One that all thy virtues feeling,
Could exist removed from thee.
That in which thine image blooming,
Holds an empire all its own,
Which, though thou to grief art dooming,
Lives, fair maid, in thee alone;
Every thought to thee addresses,
Filled by thee with visions bright,
Even 'midst sorrows, pains, distresses,
Thou'rt its comfort, hope, delight.