Seems scarce to heave the bosom fair;It rises from the spotless breast,
The first faint dawn of tender care.
There is a sigh - so soft, so sweet,
It breathes not from the lip of woe;'Tis heard where conscious lovers meet,
Whilst yet untold young passions glow.
There is a sigh - short, deep, and strong,
That on the lip of rapture dies;It floats mild evening's shade along.
When meet the fond consenting eyes.
There is a sigh - that speaks regret,
Yet seems scarce conscious of its pain'It tells of bliss remember'd yet,
Of bliss that ne'er must wake again.
There is a sigh - that, deeply breath'd,
Bespeaks the bosom's secret woe;It says the flowers which Love had wreath'd
Are wither'd, ne'er again to blow,
There is a sigh - that slowly swells,
Then deeply breathes its load of care;It speaks that in that bosom dwells,
That last worst pang, fond love's despair.