THE MOURNING MAIDEN.
SONG XLIV.
1
The hoary winter's gone, blythe blinks the spring-time sun,
The small birds sing on every tree;
The riv'lets murmur clear, green buds the fragrant breer,
Sweet hums mid the herb tops the bee.
The heart of man leaps glad, to see the woodlands clad,
And the yellow lillies wave on the lee;
But to me on the plains, still the winter tempest reigns,
Since my lover has parted from me.
2
Oh, the little bird is blest, while it nourishes its nest,
And dries its dewy wings in the sun,
The fountains tinkle sweet with the drops of odorous weet,
They drink from the flow'rs as they run;
To the winter-smitten woods, to the herb by frozen floods,
The spring's balmy honours return;
But to my stricken heart, nought can pleasure impart,
I wake but to weep and to mourn.
3
True love's the summer sun, that its radiant course does run,
Heart cheering and charming to view;
But false love is the moon, night wand'ring up and down,
Cold, comfortless, changing, untrue.
Oh, can it joy impart, for to win a simple heart,
Then cast it to sadness and pain;
While I wander on the earth, nor peace, love, or mirth,
Will e'er gladden my bosom again.
