SONG.
1
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 lip that flows
Comes to me like a blessing.
2
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.
3
Sigh, sigh no longer, gentle Maiden!
For me no longer droop:
To one so poor, so sorrow-laden
They ne'er can let thee stoop.
Love ne'er can place thy hand in mine,
Thou art so high above me:
Yet might I plead with eyes like thine
I think that thou wouldst love me!
