TO SUSETTE.

WILT thou come with me, love! to my own native land,

O'er the waves of the blue-rolling sea?

Wilt thou leave the lov'd scenes of this beautiful strand, For the shores which are dearest to me?

Thou wilt not, Susette!-yet how oft have I deem'd, While I gaz'd on that beautiful face;

That thy breast would be always as true as it seem'd, Nor have shrunk from thy lover's embrace.

But pleasure must fade, like the Zephyr that sighs
O'er the harp which it meets in its way;

One moment it soothes us, then mournfully flies,
Like the sigh of a lover, away.

Thou wilt tell me, tho' sever'd and broken in heart,

That thy love will continue the same;

But I feel, since thy bosom so lightly could part,

That 'twill only exist in the name.

Yet think not I'll smile on each face that I meet,
With the feelings I've gaz'd upon thine;

Tho' thy breast with affection no longer may beat,
Not a wish shall be alter'd in mine.

For I'll muse, when between us the ocean shall roll, On the days which so sweetly have flown;

And the thoughts of the past shall preserve in my soul, All the warmth that I ask in thine own.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY C. ROWORTH, BELL-YARD,

TEMPLE-BAR.