Song.

SONG.

ASK not, whence springs my ceaseless sadness, But let me still the secret keep: Ask not, why thus in restless madness Pass the long hours once given to sleep:

And strive not thus my looks to read: .... For 't is by certain fate decreed, The cause that bids me rove forlorn, If known, would only move thy scorn, And make with anger's lightnings shine Those now soft-smiling eyes of thine.

But know, when I no more behold thee, And to distant scenes remove; Should e'er a mournful tale be told thee, Of a youth who died for love,

Who, though unknown to rank and fame, Dared to admire a high-born dame; But, still averse to wound her pride, Sad silence kept, and pined, and died: .... My likeness in that victim see, And pitying him thou'lt pity me.