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To Mary in Heaven.
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lovest to greet the early morn,
Again thou usherest in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.
Oh Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breats!
That lovest to greet the early morn,
Again thou usherest in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.
Oh Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breats!
That sacred hour can I forget,
Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love!
Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace,
Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love!
Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace,
Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
'O'erhung with wild woods, thick’ning green
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene:
The flowers sprung wanton to be pressed,
The birds sang love on every spray;
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.
'O'erhung with wild woods, thick’ning green
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene:
The flowers sprung wanton to be pressed,
The birds sang love on every spray;
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care:
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channles deeper wear.
My Mary, deat departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
And fondly broods with miser care:
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channles deeper wear.
My Mary, deat departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
