Song. in the Same

While, pensive, I thought on my Love, The Moon, on the Mountain, was bright; And Philomel, down in the grove, Broke, sweetly, the silence of Night. O, I wish'd that the tear-drop would flow! But I felt too much anguish to weep! 'Till, worn with the weight of my woe, I sunk on my pillow, to sleep.

Methought that my Love, as I lay, His ringlets all clotted with gore, In the paleness of Death, seem'd to say, "Alas! we must never met more!" "Yes, yes, my beloved! we must part;" "The Steel of my Rival was true;— "The Assassin has struck on that heart," "Which beat with such fervour for you."