My girlish brow adorning?
Ah, no! for she who scorns thee now,
Will miss its dear caresses;
And sorrow to remember how
It decks another’s tresses.
Alas! this tortured soul of mine,
Though by thy treason riven,
Can never cast thee from its shrine
Unwept, or unforgiven.
Nay, I, when youth and hope depart,