The Lament（2 / 3）
how have the raptur'd moments flown!
how have i wish'd for fortune's charms,
for her dear sake, and her's alone!
and, must i think it! is she gone,
my secret heart's exulting boast?
and does she heedless hear my groan?
and is she ever, ever lost?
oh! can she bear so base a heart,
so lost to honour, lost to truth,
as from the fondest lover part,
the plighted husband of her youth?
alas! life's path may be unsmooth!
her way may lie thro' rough distress!
then, who her pangs and pains will soothe
her sorrows share, and make them less?
ye winged hours that o'er us pass'd,
enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd,
your dear remembrance in my breast
my fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd:
that breast, how dreary now, and void,
for her too scanty once of room!
ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd,
and not a wish to gild the gloom!
the morn, that warns th' approaching day,
awakes me up to toil and woe;
i see the hours in long array,
that i must suffer, lingering, slow:
full many a pang, and many a throe,
keen recollection's direful train,
must wring my soul, were phoebus, low, ↑返回顶部↑
how have i wish'd for fortune's charms,
for her dear sake, and her's alone!
and, must i think it! is she gone,
my secret heart's exulting boast?
and does she heedless hear my groan?
and is she ever, ever lost?
oh! can she bear so base a heart,
so lost to honour, lost to truth,
as from the fondest lover part,
the plighted husband of her youth?
alas! life's path may be unsmooth!
her way may lie thro' rough distress!
then, who her pangs and pains will soothe
her sorrows share, and make them less?
ye winged hours that o'er us pass'd,
enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd,
your dear remembrance in my breast
my fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd:
that breast, how dreary now, and void,
for her too scanty once of room!
ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd,
and not a wish to gild the gloom!
the morn, that warns th' approaching day,
awakes me up to toil and woe;
i see the hours in long array,
that i must suffer, lingering, slow:
full many a pang, and many a throe,
keen recollection's direful train,
must wring my soul, were phoebus, low, ↑返回顶部↑