WHEN hollow bursts the rushing wind,
And heavy beats the shower,
This anxious, aching bosom finds
No comfort in its power.
For ah, my love! it little knows
What thy hard fate may be;
What bitter storm of fortune blows,
What tempests trouble thee.

A wayward fate hath twin'd the thread
On which our days depend,
And darkling in the checker'd shade.
She draws it to an end.
But whatsoe'er may be thy doom,
The lot is cast for me;
Or in the world, or in the tomb,
My heart is fix'd on thee.