Behind the mountain, Sol had ceased to glare,
Timid the moon with modest lustre rose,
Willing as though my misery to share.
The past was quick presented to my mind,
A gentle languor calmed each throbbing vein,
My poor heart trembled as the leaves from wind,
My melting soul owned melancholy's reign.
Plain did each action of my life appear,
Each feeling bade some fellow feeling start,
On my parched bosom fell the flowing tear,
And cooled the burning anguish of my heart.
Moments of bliss, I cried, ah! whither flown?
When Friendship breathed to me her soothing sighs,
Twice have the fields with golden harvests shone,
And still her blest return stern Fate denies!
Cynthia, thou seest me lone my course pursue,
Hopeless here roving, grief my only guide,
Evenings long past thou call'st to Fancy's view,
Forcing the tear down my pale cheek to glide.
Friendless, of love bereft, what now my joy?
Void are my heart and soul, a prey to pain,
To love, to be beloved, can never cloy,
But all on earth besides, alas! is vain!






THE LITTLE DOVE.