A MOURNING LOVER.

[ZaunköniG]

A MOURNING LOVER.
(IPSE LOQUITUR.)

Thou sittest at thy lyre, O lady sweet !
Teaching it all thine own delicious soul ;
Thy voice, the while, swells richly o'er the whole,
And greets mine ear, for Angel-ears more meet ;
Unhappy me ! not for another's bliss,
But that thou art the blessing ! soon to me
Though now thy song doth sound so dear and free,
Its spell shall vanish in another's kiss ;
Unhappy me ! my wounds must ever smart;
Alas ! for fruitless love ! Alas ! for them.
Who pluck the flowers and press them to their heart,
Though other hands must claim the vital stem,
And all its future bloom ; I know thou art
Powerless to save, though hating to condemn.