51
My thoughts were sad—for once my breast
Had throbb'd with passion's wildest thrill,
But now its idol is at rest—
Then sure my heart might well be still.
Had throbb'd with passion's wildest thrill,
But now its idol is at rest—
Then sure my heart might well be still.
Oh! she I lov'd was lovelier far
Than coinage of the poet's brain;
A mild benignant beaming star,
Which ne'er can shine on me again.
Than coinage of the poet's brain;
A mild benignant beaming star,
Which ne'er can shine on me again.
Yet hold—for though from me she's torn,
Her influence still is o'er me shed,
Soon shall I cease her loss to mourn,
Soon shall I seek her 'mongst the dead.
Her influence still is o'er me shed,
Soon shall I cease her loss to mourn,
Soon shall I seek her 'mongst the dead.
