And let thy melting ditty float—
The dirge of long lamented love.
Coo softly to the silent ear,
And make the floods of grief to roll;
And cause by love the sleeping tear,
To wake with sorrow from the soul.
Is it the loss of pleasures past
Which makes thee droop thy sounding wing?
Does winter's rough, inclement blast
Forbid thy tragic voice to sing?
Is it because the fragrant breeze
Along the sky forbears to flow—
Nor whispers low amidst the trees,
Whilst all the vallies frown below?
Why should a frown thy soul alarm,
And tear thy pleasures from thy breast?
Or veil the smiles of every charm,
And rob thee of thy peaceful rest.
Perhaps thy sleeping love may wake,
And hear thy penitential tone;
And suffer not thy heart to break,
Nor let a princess grieve alone.
Perhaps his pity may return,
With equal feeling from the heart,
And breast with breast together burn,
Never—no, never more to part.
