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Her lovely form was sweet to view,
As dawn at opening day;
But, ah! she mourn'd her love not true,
And wept her cares away.
The brook flow’d gently at her feet,
In murmurs smooth along;
Her pipe, which once she tun'd so sweet,
Had now forgot its song.
No more to charm the vale she tries,
For grief has fill'd her breast;
Fled are the joys she us'd to prize,
And fled with them her rest.
Poor hepless maid! who can behold
Thy anguish so severe,
Or bear thy love-lorn story told,
Without a pitying tear!
Maria, hapless maid, adieu!
Thy sorrows soon must cease;
Soon heaven will take a maid so true
To everlasting peace.
F I N I S.
