Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/186

Rh 'T was sad to gaze on the wan brow Of him who now awoke the lute, As one last song life must allow, Then would those tuneful lips be mute. His cheek was worn, what was the care Had writ such early lesson there? Was it Love, blighted in its hour Of earliest and truest power By worldly chills which ever fling Their check and damp on young Love's wing; Or unrequited, while the heart Could not from its fond worship part? Or was it but the wasting woe Which every human path must know; Or hopes, like birds, sent forth in vain, And seeking not their ark again;