A Mourning Lover

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.