She says: 'Poor Friend, you waste a treasure
Which you can ne'er regain--
Time, health, and glory, for the pleasure
Of toying with a chain.'
But then her voice so tender grows,
So kind and so caressing;
Each murmur from her lips that flows
Comes to me like a blessing.
Sometimes she says: 'Sweet Friend, I grieve you--
Alas, it gives me pain!
What can I? Ah, might I relieve you,
You ne'er had mourned in vain!'
And then her little hand she presses
Upon her heart, and sighs;
While tears, whose source not yet she guesses,
Grow larger in her eyes.
_Aubrey de Vere_