I still in murmurs must repine,

And think that love can ne'er be true.

7.

Which meets me with no joyous sign,

Without a sigh which bids adieu;

How different is my love from thine,

How keen my grief when leaving you.

[pg 9] 

[pg 9]

8.

Your image fills my anxious breast,

Till day declines adown the West,

And when, at night, I sink to rest,

In dreams your fancied form I view.

9.

'Tis then your breast, no longer cold,

With equal ardour seems to burn,

While close your arms around me fold,

Your lips my kiss with warmth return.

10.

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