I'll bid my heart be still,
And check each struggling sigh!
And there's none e'er shall know
My soul's cherish'd woe,
When the first tears of sorrow are dry.

They bid me cease to weep,
For glory gilds his name;
Ah! 'tis therefore I mourn --
He ne'er can return
To enjoy the bright noon of his fame.

While minstrels wake the lay
For peace and freedom won,
Like my lost lover's knell
The tones seem to swell,
And I hear but his death-dirge alone.

My cheek has lost its hue,
My eye grows faint and dim,
But 'tis sweeter to fade
In grief's gloomy shade,
Than to bloom for another than him.