TO MARY. 'MID roseate hues, the setting sun On yonder hills his race has run: It sinks-'tis gone-and I must fly, And yet I little thought to feel Such pangs as now around me steal; As tears beneath that dark fringe glow, And wilder still our accents flow. My bark glides o'er the waters blue, But still remembrance loves to stray O'er yonder wave the queen of night And while these eyes on Cynthia dwell, We gave our youthful hearts away. TO MARY. OH! tell me not that dark abyss Ah! no, in worlds more pure than this, And leaves the realms of grief and care, Midst happier hearts, and calmer hours, And every charm which once could please, But where are they? and where art thou, Decay has mark'd thy marble brow, Thy lovely cheek has lost its bloom; And every heart is far away, Which made those joyous hours more gay. Lo! yon bright orb withdraws its gleam, And nothing, save the raven's scream, While gathering clouds with black'ning gloom And round me lie the silent dust Of hearts as gay, and forms as bright; Ah! whither glides thy fairy form, My Mary? if in yon bright star, Oh! leave thy place of blissful rest, Fair as the vapoury forms which glide In vain—in vain! yet if thine ear For joys which flew in earlier days; |