My hopes were as bright as the bow, when the storm
Is rolling away before it,
And Love painted on them so bright a form
That not a cloud came o'er it.

The bow has gone, and the night come on,
And all is dark and dreary;
Love has departed, and hope has flown
To the silent grave of Mary.

My thoughts were as playful as billows, that kiss
The rocks and the sands of the shore;
And fancy would whisper, like them, of a bliss
Such as mortal ne'er met before.

But the billows are lost in a whelming wave,
Whose voice shall be never weary;
And Fancy has withered, like weeds on the grave
Of my loved, my ruined Mary.

There was joy in her cheek, there was love in her eye,
And innocence played around her;
But her laugh of mirth was changed to a sigh
When the toils of deception bound her.

Now dead is he that beguiled my love,
And she that I loved so dearly;
And I shall join, in the heaven above,
My bright, angelic Mary.