A youth, adorn'd with every art
To warm and win the coldest heart,
In secret mine possest;
The morning bud that fairest blows,
The vernal oak that straitest grows,
His shape and face exprest.

In moving sounds he told his tale,
Soft as the sighings of the gale
That wakes the flowery year.
What wonder he could charm with ease,
Whom happy Nature form'd to please,
Whom Love had made sincere.

At morn he left me, -- fought, and fell,
The fatal evening heard his knell,
And saw the tears I shed:
Tears that must ever, ever fall;
For ah! no sighs the past recall,
No cries awake the dead!