To Marian
Dear Marian, thou art far away,
And I’m disconsolate to-day,
In sorrow sighing;
My pleasant thoughts lie like the leaves,
O’er whose cold heads Æolus grieves,
Complaining, dying.
’Tis weary, dreary, dreary here,
The yellow leaves are falling sere,
With mournful rustling,
The little bird has hush’d his song,
And close the greener boughs among
He’s coldly nestling.
How sad the high wind’s sounding dirge,
As ’twere old ocean’s moaning surge,
Around our dwelling;
I well may tell the reason why,
But oh! the teardrops in mine eye
Are swiftly swelling.
The world is sad, and I am so;
Does Marian hear my plaint? Oh, no;
She’s far away.
Ye envious streams—ye hateful hills!
Ah me! what cruel anguish thrills
My heart to-day!
But soon may Fortune learn to smile
Upon her sad and helpless child,
And let us meet,
No more to part, no more to sigh,
But happy live, and happy die,
In union sweet!