When midst the gay I meet

  That gentle smile of thine,

Tho' still on me it turns most sweet,

  I scarce can call it mine:

But when to me alone

  Your secret tears you show,

Oh, then I feel those tears my own,

  And claim them while they flow.

Then still with bright looks bless

  The gay, the cold, the free;

Give smiles to those who love you less,

  But keep your tears for me.

The snow on Jura's steep

  Can smile in many a beam,

Yet still in chains of coldness sleep.

  How bright soe'er it seem.

But, when some deep-felt ray

  Whose touch is fire appears,

Oh, then the smile is warmed away,

  And, melting, turns to tears.

Then still with bright looks bless

  The gay, the cold, the free;

Give smiles to those who love you less,

  But keep your tears for me.