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Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish
By pangs which a smile would dispel? Would the hope, which thou once bad'st mecherish,
For torture repay me too well?
Now sad is the garden of roses,
Beloved but false Haideé!
There Flora all withered reposes,
And mourns o'er thine absence with me.
Written beneath a Picture.
Dear object of defeated care!
Though now of Love and thee bereft,
To reconcile me with despair
Thine image and my tears are left.
'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope;
But this I feel can ne'er be true:
For by the death-blow of my Hope
My Memory immortal grew.
The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left,
Shall never part from mine,
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see:
The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.
I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast,
Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write-to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak?