The tears I shed must ever fall: 
      I mourn not for an absent swain;
    For thoughts may past delights recall,
      And parted lovers meet again. 
    I weep not for the silent dead: 
      Their toils are past, their sorrows o’er;
    And those they loved their steps shall tread,
      And death shall join to part no more.

    Though boundless oceans roll’d between,
      If certain that his heart is near,
    A conscious transport glads each scene,
      Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear. 
    E’en when by death’s cold hand removed,
      We mourn the tenant of the tomb,
    To think that e’en in death he loved,
      Can gild the horrors of the gloom.

    But bitter, bitter are the tears
      Of her who slighted love bewails;
    No hope her dreary prospect cheers,
      No pleasing melancholy hails. 
    Hers are the pangs of wounded pride,
      Of blasted hope, of wither’d joy;
    The flattering veil is rent aside,
      The flame of love burns to destroy.

    In vain does memory renew
      The hours once tinged in transport’s dye;
    The sad reverse soon starts to view,
      And turns the past to agony. 
    E’en time itself despairs to cure
      Those pangs to every feeling due: 
    Ungenerous youth! thy boast how poor,
      To win a heart, and break it too!

    No cold approach, no alter’d mien,
      Just what would make suspicion start;
    No pause the dire extremes between—­
      He made me blest, and broke my heart:[39]
    From hope, the wretched’s anchor, torn,
      Neglected and neglecting all;
    Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn,
      The tears I shed must ever fall.

[39] The four first lines of the last stanza are by Burns.

RETURNING SPRING, WITH GLADSOME RAY.[40]

    Returning spring, with gladsome ray,
      Adorns the earth and smoothes the deep: 
    All nature smiles, serene and gay,
      It smiles, and yet, alas!  I weep.

    But why, why flows the sudden tear,
      Since Heaven such precious boons has lent,
    The lives of those who life endear,
      And, though scarce competence, content?

    Sure, when no other bliss was mine
      Than that which still kind Heaven bestows,
    Yet then could peace and hope combine
      To promise joy and give repose.

    Then have I wander’d o’er the plain,
      And bless’d each flower that met my view;
    Thought Fancy’s power would ever reign,
      And Nature’s charms be ever new.

    I fondly thought where Virtue dwelt,
      That happy bosom knew no ill—­
    That those who scorn’d me, time would melt,
      And those I loved be faultless still.

    Enchanting dreams! kind was your art
      That bliss bestow’d without alloy;
    Or if soft sadness claim’d a part,
      ’Twas sadness sweeter still than joy.