Of all the maidens fair who have been crowned
By sweetest Venus, with a wreathe of beauty,
It's you alone, with tender melancholy,
Knows bitter-sweet compassion, so profound,
You cast your eyes down to the sullen ground,
Recalling the sweet-sad memory
Of hopeless love's torturous melody.
Ah! What sad romance is in mem'ry found
That does not change the heart for good or ill,
That it be not the same forever more?
When judgment comes, and secrets all are shown,
Will not a grievous wound be found there still?
Could not our Maker in our heart-strings' lore
Read all our sorrows, 'till our lives be known?