My Error

I never dream'd that thou couldst be
So treacherous and so cold to me;
Once thou o'erflow'd'st with tenderness,
As now with pride and scorn's excess.
Thy love was but a faint esteem—
Mine, bright and warm, as summer-beam;
And thine indifference wounds me more
Than hate or grief could wound before.
I vow'd—I will not break the vow,
Though pledged to one so cold as thou;
I'll keep the sacred oath I swore,
Till o'er me death shall close its door;
And then, even then, my slumbering clay
My crumbling bones, from day to day
Shall pour forth sighs to thee—to thee—
Till not a fragment rests of me.
Then say upon my grave's green breast,
"Here slumbers in his bed of rest.
One whom I loved—and to despair
Betrayed him. Yes! he slumbers here."
I have no other wish, no prayer.
Say that my passion was sincere,
And my reward, to die—and say,
I pined in silent thought away;
And in my dying agony
I spoke, I thought, alone of thee.