The Maiden's Plaint

THE fores tpines groan —

The dim clouds are flitting —

The Maiden is sitting

On the green shore alone.

The surges are broken with might, with might,

And her sighs are pour'd on the desert Night,

And tears are troubling her eye.

"All, all is o'er:

The heart is destroyed —

The world is a void —

It can yield me no more.

Then, Master of Life, take back thy boon:

I have tasted such bliss as is under the moon:

I have lived — I have loved — I would die!"

Thy tears, O Forsaken!

Are gushing in vain;

Thy wail shall not waken

The Buried again:

But all that is left for the desolate bosom,

The flower of whose Love has been blasted in blossom,

Be granted to thee from on high!

Then pour like a river

Thy tears without number!

The Buried can never

Be wept from their slumber:

But the luxury dear to the Broken-hearted,

When the sweet enchantment of Love hath departed,

Be thine — the tear and the sigh!.