18
VIII.[1]
They wander'd thro' a scene, where every spot
Was trac'd with some soft record of the heart;
Where the eye could not glance, but it must gaze
On some memorial of their happiness.
Here wing'd with pleasure moments fled, as in
A magic circle, where hours past, but left
No sorrow for their loss—perish'd like flowers
Dying in odours, while fresh blooms succeed:
But these were dreams of blessedness departed;
And the long lingering looks they now were giving,
Perchance would be their last. Another day,
And, Adelaide, thy love will be afar.
The arm now round thee thrown so tenderly,
Will be the reddest in the ranks of death;
That voice, that sinks so sweetly on thy ear,
- ↑ the omission of a section number VII. is presumably a publisher's error
