MOULINES MARIA
’Twas near a thicket’s calm retreat,
Under a Poplar tree,
Maria chose her lonely seat,
To mourn her sorrows free.
Her lovely form was sweet to view,
As dawn at op’ning day!
But ah! she mourn’d her love not true,
And wept her cares away.
The brook flow’d gently at her feet,
In murmurs smooth along;
Her pipe, which case she tun’d most ⟨sweet⟩,
had now forgot its song!
No more to charm the vale she ⟨cries⟩,
For grief has fill’d her breast,
Those joys which once she us’d to prize,
But love has robb’d her rest.
Poor hapless maid who can behold
Thy sorrows so severe,
And hear thy lovelorn story told,
Without a falling tear?
Maria—luckless maid!—adieu,
Thy sorrows soon must cease;
For Heav’n will take a maid so true,
To everlasting peace!
