How often in his purple wine
He's bathed the red rose from my hair,
And said, "The cup is pale, love mine!
Unless what breathes of thee be there."
When others in his halls rejoice,
And wake the lute, and lead the choir
Ah! does he miss Ione's voice,
And does he miss Ione's lyre?
I will not call him false, but changed;
Some change the wanderer may restore;
Alas! the heart, when once estranged,
Returns to its first faith no more.
I only ask to weep apart,—
Reproach I scorn,—regret is vain;
Yet, idol of my dreaming heart,
You'll never be so loved again.