By That Smile Which Made Me Blest

By that smile which made me blest,
And left me soon the wretch you see--
By that heart I once possest,
Which now, they say, is given to thee--
By St. Clara's wrongs and woes--
Trust not young Glenarvon's vows.


By those lays which breathe around
A poet's great and matchless art--
By that voice whose silver sound
Can soothe to peace th' imprisoned heart--
By every bitter pang I prove--
Trust not young Glenarvon's love.


Each brighter, kinder hope forsaking,
Bereft of all that made life dear
My health impaired, my spirit breaking,
Yet still too proud to shed one tear:
O! lady, by my wrongs and woes,
Trust not young Glenarvon's vows.


And when at length the hand of death
Shall bid St. Clara's heart be still--
When struggling with its latest breath,
His image shall her fancy fill,
Ah trust to one whose death shall prove
What fate attends Glenarvon's love.