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Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain,
The cold repulse, the look askance,
The lightning of Love's angry glance.
In flattering dreams I deemed thee mine;
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline;
Like melting wax, or withering flower,
I feel my passion, and thy power.
My light of life! ah, tell me why
Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow: What wretch with me would barter woe?
My bird! relent: one note could give
My curdling blood, my maddning brain,
Pour me the poison; fear not thou!
Thou canst not murder more than now:
I've lived to curse my natal day,
My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle
Are doubly bitter from that thought: 'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest,
Too well thou lov'st—too soon thou leavest.
The wholly false the heart despises,
And spurns deceiver and deceit; But she who not a thought disguises,
Whose love is as sincere as sweet,
When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To dream of joy and wake to sorrow
Is doomed to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely,