Vain all the praise thy song could still inspire,
Though many a happy band,
Rung with less skilful hand,
The borrowed love notes of thy echoing lyre.
Fame, to thy breaking heart,
No comfort could impart,
In vain thy brow the laurel wreath was wearing;
One grief and one alone
Could bow thy bright head down,
—Thou wert a woman, and wert left despairing!"