Come, gentle pity, sooth my breast,
Pity, thou attribute divine,
Come softly lull my heart to rest,
And with my tears O mingle thine.
How sweet is sympathising grief,
How grateful to the breast of woe,
From sorrow’s pangs we find relief
In tears that from sweet pity flow.
Thus sighing to the passing gale,
Or wand’ring o’er the rugged steep,
Oft have I told my mournful tale,
And wept my sorrows in the deep.
Few are my days, yet full of pain
I sorrowing tread life’s devious way,
No hopes my weary steps sustain,
My grief, alas! finds no allay.
See yonder rose that withering lies,
Lost are the beauties of its form,
Torn from its fost’ring stem it dies,
A victim to the ruthless storm.
How fair it shone at early morn,
How lovely deck’d in verdant pride,
It blush’d luxuriant on the thorn,
And shed its sweets on ev’ry side.
How fair the morning of my day,
Now chang’d, alas! to horrid gloom,
My joys are fled, far, far away,
And buried lie in Anna’s tomb.