O dear one, how sad is that moan,
How languid and sickly that eye;
My bosom responds to each groan,
And echos each deep-breathing sigh.
Those fluttering pulsations I trace,
The anguish that sits on thy brow,
The paleness that covers thy face,
Thy voice that is languid and low.
O dear one, how deep is the grief,
That withers my desolate heart;
Kind Heav'n bring thee speedy relief,
Or thou from thy mother wilt part.