Thou wilt join in the midnight saraband,
With thy graceful smile, and thy whisper bland;
And to many another thou wilt be
All thou once wert to only me.
I might have known what would be my share—
Silent suffering, and secret care;
I might have known my woman's part—
A faded cheek, and a rifled heart.
Often I'd read in the minstrel-tale,
How bright eyes grow dim, and red lips pale;
Of the tears that wail the fond maiden's lot,
But I loved thee, and all but my love forgot.
And must this be, oh, heart of mine!
Why art thou not too proud to pine?
Again I will wreathe my raven hair,
With the red-rose flowers it was wont to wear;
Again I will enter my father's hall;
Again be the gayest and gladdest of all;
Like the falcon that soars at her highest bound,
Though her bosom bear in it its red death-wound!
But what boots it to teach my heart a task
So vain as weeping behind a mask,
Broken, with only ruins to hide,
Little it recks of the show of pride.
