Ah, fair one! lone as desert flower,
Whose bloom and beauty are in vain;
How dark was that too fatal hour,
Which brought thee lasting grief and pain!
What is the world to thee forlorn!
Thine every path is desolate,
From all enjoyments rudely torn,
How drear and comfortless thy fate!
What pity, friendless, helpless, poor!
That such should be thine early lot—
Doomed to remain for ever more
As if thou in this world wert not.
And is there none—O! can it be?
None warm or friendly in thy cause?
Has pitiless humanity
Forgot its sacred ties and laws?
The rigours of a life austere,
Followed by every fear and shame,
Await thee as thy portion here:
What is thy being but a name?
Thou may'st not, dar'st not, must not hope
A joy upon the world beneath;
But thou must e'er with sorrows cope,
Sorrows which only end in death.
And thou art doomed to be at strife
For ever with thyself, to quell
The very elements of life,
And every brighter thought repel.
Is this the all, or should it be
The all that here to thee is left?
And must the world remain to thee
A scene of every charm bereft?