Page:The Carcanet.djvu/108

Some wild illusion, strange and vain,
Seems reigning in thy fever'd brain,
So sad thy look, so sad thy strain,
 And sad thy mournful lay.

Come take thy harp and tell me all
Beside this babbling watet-fall :
Its echoes will the tale recal,
 Some future pensive day.

 

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Stranger, thy sympathy is new;
Yet would I fain believe it true :
But kindness cannot cure my grief,
 Nor sympathy afford relief:

Thou must not hear my tale!
"Tis true that in yon lone retreat,
I sought to rest my pilgrim feet:
'Tis true I wander, heedless where,
Nor mind the chilly evening air,
 Nor winter's ruder gale.

No wild illusion fills my brain;
No visions strange of fancied pain;
'Tis hopeless mis'ry draws the tear,
'Tis sighs for all my heart holds dear,
 That blight the form you see.