From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses,

I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss;

For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses

Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this.

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning,

Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage,

On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,

With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,

Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;

Could they view us our sad separation bewailing,

Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation,

Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;

Love and hope upon earth bring no more

We hence may meet, and pass each other by,
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 101
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe,
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known
voice.

Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings which perchance it
ought,

If these, - but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,

Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in

vain,

110

The guardian seraph who directs thy fate Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.

1805.