Mine own beloved, believest thou ought of this?
Oh! then no more
My heart, o'er early faded dreams of bliss
Its wail shall pour.
Give me this hope, though only from afar
It sheds its light,
And, like yon dewy melancholy star,
With tears is bright--
Let me but hope a heart with fondness fraught,
That could not sin
Against its worshipped idol, e'en in thought,
Thy love may win:
Let me but hope the changeless love of years,
The tender care
That fain would die to save thine eye from tears,
Thy heart may share.
Or let me hope at least that, when no more
My voice shall meet
The ear that listens only to think o'er
Tones far more sweet;
When the kind shelter of the grave shall hide
This faded brow,
This form once gazed upon with pride,
With coldness now;
When never more my weary steps of pain
Around thee move,
When loosed for ever is life's heavy chain,
Love will win love.