Like to the fond, confiding dove,
Howe’er so gay and blithe before,
Repel the promptings of her love,
Her spirits sink to rise no more.
Teach her but that she loves in vain
And life becomes a worthless part;
The streams of love rush back again
And choke the fountains of the heart.
Though she may flourish for awhile,
The counterfeit of what she’s been.