Sympathy

Why, Julia, say, that pensive mien?

I heard thy bosom sighing;

How quickly on thy cheek is seen

The blush, as quickly flying!

Why mark I, in thy soften'd eye,

Once with light spirit beaming,

A silent tear I know not why,

In trem'lous luster gleaming?

Come, tell me all thy bosom pain:

Perhaps some faithless lover?

Nay, droop not thus, the rose with rain

May sink, yet still recover.

O Julia! My words recall,

My thoughts too rud'ly guide me;

I see afresh thy sorrows fall,

They seem to plead and chide me.

I too, the secret would have known,

That makes existence languish,

Links to the soul on thought alone,

And that, a thought of anguish;

Forgive, forgive, an aching heart,

That vainly hoped to cheer thee

These tears may tell thee, while they start,

How all thy griefs endear thee!