Go, Then--'Tis Vain. (Sicilian Air.)

A poem by Thomas Moore

Go, then--'tis vain to hover
Thus round a hope that's dead;
At length my dream is over;
'Twas sweet--'twas false--'tis fled!
Farewell! since naught it moves thee,
Such truth as mine to see--
Some one, who far less loves thee,
Perhaps more blest will be.

Farewell, sweet eyes, whose brightness
New life around me shed;
Farewell, false heart, whose lightness
Now leaves me death instead.
Go, now, those charms surrender
To some new lover's sigh--
One who, tho' far less tender,
May be more blest than I.