Consolation

IF again thou mourning weepest, Wounded heart of mine, That a maiden’s soul disowneth Worth and merits thine, Thee I’ll comfort, as a father Comforteth his child, When th’ enchanting flow’ret’s ravish’d By the tempest wild.

Chides the father—‘Weep no longer, Other flowers be thine, For a single flower, my dearest, Doth the sun not shine. In the groves and meadows thousands Find we day by day, Only wait, dear child, a little For approaching May.’

But, my heart, in thy recesses Deep the knowledge lies, That I scarce thy grief can comfort, As a child that cries. Weep then on, true heart and sorrow, Weep, ye eyes, in woe; Tears for love—my blood must only For my country flow!