IN thee, I fondly hop'd to clasp,
A friend whom death alone could sever,
But envy with malignant grasp,
Has torn thee from my breast for ever.
True, she has forc'd thee from my breast,
But in my heart thou keep'st thy seat;
There, there, thine image still must rest,
Until that heart shall cease to beat.
And when the grave restores her dead,
When life again to dust is given,
On thy dear breast I'll lay my head,
Without thee ! where would be my Heaven ?