Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/308

296

What, oh! what could I read there, But the depths of Love's despair,— Blighted feelings, like leaves that fall The first from April's coronal,— Hopes like meteors that shine and depart— An early grave, and a broken heart!

SONG.

Farewell!—and never think of me    In lighted hall or lady's bower! Farewell!—and never think of me      In spring sunshine or summer hour!— But when you see a lonely grave, Just where a broken heart might be, With not one mourner by its sod, Then—and then only—