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Yea, they see the light departed From thy dark, but lustrous eye,
Wond'ring why the merry hearted Stifles thus the rising sigh.
There is one among the number, One who knows the reason well :
Can that guilty conscience slumber ? Can those lips of falsehood smile ?
He has wrested the affection
Of thy young and trusting heart;
His must be the sad reflection
That he barb'd and hurl'd the dart.
Thou hast loved, thou gentle creature— Loved too fondly, and too well!
By thy wasted form and feature, By thy tears which often swell,
By thy woeful tale of sorrow,
Well I know it has been so! From what fountain canst thou borrow
Solace for thy bitter woe ?
Friendship ? what can friendship yield thee ?
If thou tell me all thy grief, I, alas! can never heal thee,
Cannot yield the least relief.