My Sylvia frowns on her love:
Ah! hope from this bosom is fled,
That syren that o'er my fond heart,
So lately her influence shed.

And must I for ever despair
To own the dear girl I adore?
And will the bright day-spring of love
Ne'er brighten my hemisphere more?

'Tis past!—on the heart that is her's
She frowns with contempt and disdain,
And seems to exult in the cause
That gives my fond bosom such pain.

Yet, trust me, dear Sylvia, this lip
That sighs nought but mis'ry and you,
Is the harbinger pure of a heart
That will ever—yes, ever prove true!