But, ah! she droops; and I am drooping too!
'Tis not for me to hold the aching head,
And cordials in my hands and eyes to bear,
To cheer her longer with a ray of hope,
And promise Ease, that wanders with To-morrow;
To watch the askings of the weary eye,
And ere the wish be form'd the wish foresee;
To me such happiness must ne'er belong!
Myself who tax the tenderness of friends,
And oft require their all-supporting aid,
Else, else this drooping, withering plant had long,
Had long ere this been mouldering in the dust.