Could weeping drown my woe.
Or smile with hope that future years
Might all untroubled flow.
The memory of the pleasant past
Might now some comfort bring.
But that's a thought too bright to last,
It flies on fleetest wing.
With hope of change my bosom glad
Might be, but hope is o'er;
The present is an earnest sad
Of sorrow yet in store.