Weep not too much, my darling;
Sigh not too oft for me;
Say not the face of Nature
Has lost its charms for thee.
I have enough of anguish
In my own breast alone;
Thou canst not ease the burden, love,
By adding still thy own.

I know the faith and fervour
Of that true heart of thine;
But I would have it hopeful
As thou wouldst render mine.
At night when I lie waking,
More soothing it will be
To say, 'She slumbers calmly now,'
Than say, 'She weeps for me.'

When through the prison-grating
The holy moon-beams shine,
And I am wildly longing
To see the orb divine;
Not crossed, deformed, and sullied,
By those relentless bars
That will not show the crescent moon,
And scarce the twinkling stars,

It is my only comfort
To think, that unto thee
The sight is not forbidden,
The face of Heaven is free.
If I could think Zerona
Is gazing upward now;
Is gazing with a tearless eye,
A calm, unruffled brow;

That moon upon her spirit
Sheds sweet, celestial balm,—
The thought, like Angel's whisper,
My misery would calm.
And when, at early morning,
A faint flush comes to me
Reflected from those glowing skies
I almost weep to see;

Or when I catch the murmur
Of gently swaying trees,
Or hear the louder swelling
Of the soul-inspiring breeze,
And pant to feel its freshness
Upon my burning brow,
Or sigh to see the twinkling leaf,
And watch the waving bough;

If from those fruitless yearnings
Thou wouldst deliver me,
Say that the charms of Nature
Are lovely still to thee.
While I am thus repining,
Oh! let me but believe,
'These pleasures are not lost to her,'
And I will cease to grieve.

Oh! scorn not Nature's bounties:
My soul partakes with thee!
Drink bliss from all her fountains:
Drink for thyself and me!
Say not,'My soul is buried
In dungeon gloom with thine';
But say, 'His heart is here with me,
His spirit drinks with mine!'

Some rainbow coming from the fair!
Some vision of the world Cashmere
I confidently see!
Or else a peacock's purple train,
Feather by feather, on the plain
Fritters itself away!

The dreamy butterflies bestir,
Lethargic pools resume the whir
Of last year's sundered tune.
From some old fortress on the sun
Baronial bees march, one by one,
In murmuring platoon!

The robins stand as thick to-day
As flakes of snow stood yesterday,
On fence and roof and twig.
The orchis binds her feather on
For her old lover, Don the Sun,
Revisiting the bog!

Without commander, countless, still,
The regiment of wood and hill
In bright detachment stand.
Behold! Whose multitudes are these?
The children of whose turbaned seas,
Or what Circassian land?