Why, Julia, say, that pensive mien?
I heard thy bosom sighing;
How quickly on thy cheek is seen
The blush, as quickly flying!
Why mark I, in thy soften'd eye,
Once with light spirit beaming,
A silent tear I know not why,
In trem'lous luster gleaming?

Come, tell me all thy bosom pain:
Perhaps some faithless lover?
Nay, droop not thus, the rose with rain
May sink, yet still recover.
O Julia! My words recall,
My thoughts too rud'ly guide me;
I see afresh thy sorrows fall,
They seem to plead and chide me.

I too, the secret would have known,
That makes existence languish,
Links [to]1 the soul on thought alone,
And that, a thought of anguish;
Forgive, forgive, an aching heart,
That vainly hoped to cheer thee
These tears may tell thee, while they start,
How all thy griefs endear thee!