OH! Lindorf! oh, Lindorf! for ever adieu!
Thy heart beats no longer tumultuous for me,
Fair Laura has robb'd me of Heaven in you,
And Laura alone must thy fav'rite be.

And canst thou so easy forget the fond breast
That gave thee responsive a sigh for a sigh?
And canst thou despoil those sad eyes of their rest,
That, when thine look'd tearful, disdain'd to be dry?

And canst thou repeat, without faltering tongue,
Those oaths which to me thou hast plighted in vain?
Let Laura beware, for the snake which has stung,
May the bosom which fosters it injure again.

Oh, Henry! oh! why did I treat thee with scorn?
Ah! why let thee scatter thy sighs to the wind?
Well art thou reveng'd; 'tis now I that must mourn,
For e'er having us'd thee, my Henry, unkind.

Dear hill! which, with him, I once lov'd to ascend,
And view the red sun as it sunk in the west;
Dear lute! which did once thy sweet harmony lend,
To charm and to sooth a fond lover to rest.

Bloom on, lovely rose-tree, in peace shalt thou blow,
Thy buds evermore shall uninjur'd remain;
No roses do I want to deck my sad brow,
A garland of thorns suits the temple of pain.