Let none bewail the bitterness of orphancy,
Nor weep if destitute of friend or kin is he,
But pity him whose soul's bereaved by ruthless fate;
Once lost-'tis hard to find again a worthy mate.
Deprived of kin and friend the heart seems lone and dead
Yet soon it finds another one to love instead;
But if the soul does lose its mate, then it must bear
The curse of yielding all its hopes to black despair.
His faith is lost, he trusts no more this world of woe;
Distraught and wild, he shuns mankind, and does not know
To whom to trust the secrets of his troubled breast,
Afraid to feel again the faith it once possessed.
'Tis hard to bear the anguish of a soul forlorn,
To shun all worldly joys and smiles or pleasures scorn;
The lonely soul forever mourns its friend and mate,
And heavy sighs bring calm to him thus doomed by fate.
Your strains of woe - a mournful flow-
At times they groan, at times they moan;
Each throb recalls the vanished hour and bids the soul to thought!
Oh! Chonguri! if ever your voice
Would flood my ear with murmuring joys,
And soothe the heart that sorrows sway and turn its tears away!
Where can I find your smile so fair,
Adorned with joy and beauty rare?
I hear but sobs that anguish feeds, hurled from a heart that bleeds!
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