To the streamlet I 'll repair,
Look upon its flight and say:
“Bear, O fleeting streamlet, bear
All my griefs with thine away!”

Ah, I breathe the wish in vain!
In this silent solitude
Counted is each throb of pain:—
Rest is melancholy's food.

Waves with waves unceasing blend,
Hurrying to their destiny:
E'en so thoughts with thoughts, and tend
All alike to misery.

And what grief so dark, so deep
As the grief interred within,
By the friend, for whom I weep,
All unnoticed, all unseen?

Yet, could I subdue my pain,
Soothe affection's rankling smart,
Ne'er would I resume again
The lost empire of my heart.

Thou, my love, art sovereign there!
There thou hast a living shrine:
Let my portion be despair,
If the light of bliss be thine.

Loved by thee, oh, might I live,
'Neath the darkest, stormiest sky:
'T were a blest alternative!
Grief is joy, if thou be nigh.

Every wish and every pray'r
Is a tribute paid to thee:
Every heart-beat—there, oh there,
Thou hast mightiest sovereignty.

To thee, nameless one! to thee
Still my thoughts, my passions turn;
'T is through thee alone I see,
Think, and feel, and breathe, and burn.

If the woe in which I live
Ever reach thy generous ear,
Pity not, but oh, forgive
Thy devoted worshipper!

In some hour of careless bliss
Deign my bosom's fire to prove;
Prove it with an icy kiss,—
Thou shalt know how much I love!