TO
MARY,
ON HER RETURNING TO HER NATIVE
COUNTRY, AFTER AN ABSENCE OF FIVE YEARS.
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Go,
fair one—go, and may each gale
Propitious guide thee o’er
the wave—
May gentle breezes swell the sail,
And Heaven prove kind my
love to save.
Go, fair one—go to that loved Isle,
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Where
friendship hails thy glad return—
Where joy the purest loves to smile,
And beauty’s torches
brightest burn. [Page 197]
And when along the green-clad shore,
At evening’s close
you oft may stray,
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Ah!
tell me, shall e’en one thought more
Be turned to him who’s
far away?
Shall memory point to each blest hour
So sweetly spent, untinged
with care,
When oft we sought the hawthorn bower,
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To
sigh love forth and ramble there?
Then high raised rapture filled the eye,
And melting fondness filled
the heart—
Nor dreamed we that an hour was nigh,
To wrench our mutual souls
apart.
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But that cursed hour too quickly came,
And robbed me of my purest
bliss—
Nor left me aught, except the name
Of life, to feel the pang
of this. [Page 198]
Then, fare thee well—no more we’ll meet
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By
whinny brae, or heath-clad hill—
No more thy gentle converse sweet,
Can cheer this heart with
rapture’s thrill.
Yet, all the influence time may lend,
Can’t break love’s
fondest, earliest twine,
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Nor
chill that heart—till life shall end—
Which still, dear MARY!
still is thine. [Page
199]
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