THE Dove, to ease an aching breast,
  In piteous murmurs vents her cares;
Like me, she sorrows, for, oppressed,
  Like me, a load of grief she bears.

Her plaints are heard in every wood,
  While I would fain conceal my woes:
But vain's my wish—the briny flood,
  The more I strive, the faster flows.

Sure, gentle bird, my drooping heart
  Divides the pangs of love with thine;
And plaintive murm’rings are thy part,
  And silent grief and tears are mine.