TO
MARY.
WRITTEN FROM THE BANKS OF THE
ST. LAWRENCE, NEAR CORNWALL, 1828.
|
|
To thee,
to thee, though far away,
My every inward thought
I turn,
And gladly hope, some future day,
This wearied heart may cease
to mourn.
May cease to mourn, when thou art nigh
|
5 |
To
soothe and lull its woes to rest,
To calm the swell, the bursting sigh,
That labours in this tortured
breast.
For, Mary! when the shades of care,
In darkness floated o’er
my mind,
|
10 |
The
pensive hour thou couldst repair,
And for each pang a solace
find. [Page 164]
But here, through dreary wilds, unknown,
The muse her dirge of sadness
sings,
Unheard, unheeded, and alone,
|
15 |
Wherever
chance her pathway brings.
AMERICA! thy boasted charms,
Are merely fleeting shades
of bliss—
My every onward step alarms—
Some lurking reptile sleeps
in this.
|
20 |
Oh! give me back my own green hills,
And humble cot on Branno’s
side,
Whence flow the deep Pierian rills,
That haste to meet Bann’s
glassy tide:
Where Ossian sung, in happier days,
|
25 |
The
mighty deeds of each loved Chief—
And still, responsive to his lays,
His gentle harp woke joy
or grief. [Page 165]
There may the setting star of life,
Which long has wandered
for repose,
|
30 |
Secluded
from this world’s strife,
With thee, my Mary, meet
its close! [Page
166]
|
|
|