THINKEST thou that the sigh which would faintly reprove thee
One doubt of thy constancy e’er would sustain?
Thinkest thou that the heart which for ever must love thee
Could harbour one thought which to thee would give pain?
Yet there is a feeling which makes the heart faulter
Though jealousy never usurped a seat there;
And there is a feeling which time cannot alter –
When hope is succeeded by placid despair.
Wilt thou heal the mind which has once felt that sadness,
Yet never was heard of its woes to complain?
Wilt thou heal the mind which no more had known gladness,
Had thy soft soothing voice poured its dulcets in vain?
The boon I would ask is, thine heart undivided,
As pure as the dew bathes the roses in bloom –
As a blest genial light which through bleak darkness glided,
And charmed with its radiance e’en deserts of gloom.