“Young men aye were fickle found Since summer trees were leafy.”
Go in peace my Beloved; tho' never again
Shall I feel in thy presence strange joy and sweet pain;
Go in peace my Beloved; perhaps thou may'st yet
Find a young heart to love thee that need not forget.
In glory and beauty and smiles thou shalt go,
And I shall remain in my wearisome woe.
Oh! thine is the rose on a bright summer morn
Full of perfume and blushes;—and mine is the thorn.
And thine is the sun-light, and mine is the cloud;
And thine is the feasting, and mine is the shroud.
And thou shalt have gladness and honour's increase;
And I in my cool silent grave shall have peace.
But so it is fitting, and so let it be;
The praise be thy portion, the shame be for me.
Ah! why should I chide thee and struggle in vain?
For love, once recalled, is not given again.
Thy word is forgotten, and broken thy vow;
If I pray or reproach thee thou heedest not now.
I would I could hate thee, false love; but in truth
How can I abhor the delight of my youth?
Oh! happy the maiden whose beautiful strength
Shall win thy proud heart and subdue it at length!
Yet tho' she be true, what hath she more than I?
She may live but for thee, and for thee I shall die.
The faith which endures and is mighty in death
Is more real, to my thinking, than words which are breath.
There are many fair women will court thee and live;
But who, broken-hearted, will die and forgive?
By the love that I bear thee, the hopes that are flown,
The heart that lies bleeding, the life left alone,—
Remember, remember the dear vanished time,
In thy far-distant country and sun-gladdened clime.
