Sweet little bird, that in such piteous strains
Dost sing, or rather mourn'st the fading year,
Seeing dark night approach, and winter drear,
While day and the gay months forsake the plains,—
Oh could'st thou know what kindred woes I bear,
By what resembling griefs my mind's opprest,
Thou sure would'st fly and hide thee in this breast
Thy dolorous laments with me to share.
Perhaps we have not equal cause to sigh;—
She whom thou mournest still may sojourn here,
While Fate has snapped my loved one's earthly tie!
But yet the grieving for the altered year
And thought of joys and sorrows long past by
Calls from mine eye the sympathetic tear!