SONG. Он how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind ; False, unkind, or found too late, And sing Woe's me e-Woe 's me! Love's a boundless burning waste, Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste, And still more seldom flee Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings; Yet somehow Love a something brings That's sweet-ev'n when we sigh Woe's me! SONG. EARL MARCH look'd on his dying child, The youth, he cried, whom I exiled, She's at the window many an hour His coming to discover ; And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower, And she look'd on her lover- But ah! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling. And am I then forgot-forgot?— It broke the heart of Ellen. In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Her cheek is cold as ashes; Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes. ABSENCE. "Tis not the loss of love's assurance, It is not doubting what thou art, But 'tis the too, too long endurance Of absence, that afflicts my heart. The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, Are fruits on desert isles that perish, Or riches buried in the deep. What though, untouch'd by jealous madness, Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck; Th' undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness, Is but more slowly doom'd to break. |