O Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, streams like the thunderstorm against the wind.
In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee
The dew of compassion is a tear.
When we two parted / In silence and tears,/ Half broken-hearted / To sever for years, / Pale grew thy cheek and cold, / Colder thy kiss;/ Truly that hour foretold / Sorrow to this.