Thy plaintive muse responds to mine,
And bids me speak no more of pain;
Ah! could I sweep some chords of mirth,
And bid the laughing hours have birth,
Thou hadst not all awoke thy lyre in vain.
Yet in the treasury of my heart
Shall some short years for ever dwell,
And sounds and tones engraved shall lie,
Unheard save in a swelling sigh—
Fond woman's language, joys or griefs to tell.
The moon shall gleam—but not for me;
Her paly light shall find my grave—
Ah! there shall cease my hopes—my fears—
My faintest sighs—my latest tears—
Remembrance only all the boon I crave!