You bid me to the green meads go,
Where the crystal waters wind;
In them you say there is a charm
That heals the troubled mind
You say the music of the woods
Might while away my care: —
Ah no! the guilty soul
Can find no comfort there.

I've wander'd in yon meadow green,
I've sat beside its spring;
But my dreary mind grew drearier
To hear its murmuring
I've bared my fever'd brow to feel
The meadow's cooling air: —
But no! the guilty soul
Could find no comfort there!

I've listen'd to the wild-bird's voice,
Far in yon hollow wood;
But a fearfulness came over me
In the deep solitude:
Methought a scornful whispering
Came to my startled ear: —
Ah no! the guilty soul
Could find no comfort there!

I have no soul for scenes like these;
They are too pure for me,
And my polluted heart can not
Drink in their purity:
Their beauty only makes me feel
How black my vices were: —
Ah no! the guilty soul
Can find no comfort there!

O leave me to myself, my friend,
Look not upon my pain!
The burning tears of penitence
Are starting in my brain.
There is a balm in penitence —
A comfort for all care;
And O! the guilty soul
Can find it only there!