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Love is the shadow of a shade, A nothing of the brain—a dream—A tale by fabling poets made, False as the false moon's changeful beam!
THE FAREWELL.
On! dear native country, where first I drew breath, Dear Hall, which belong'd to my grandsires of yore,Dear shade, where I've vow'd to be constant till death To the maid of the cottage that stands on the moor;
Dear objects, adieu! I must leave you awhile, And wander away to some far distant shore,Yet I'll think of each look, and I'll cherish each smile, Of the maid of the cottage that stands on the moor.
Though orange groves breathe a rich gale of perfume, And a fragrance unknown to our cold Northern shore,Yet I'll sigh for our woodlands, and forests' deep gloom, And the maid of the cottage that stands on the moor.
Adieu to our woodlands, our forests, adieu! Yet still my fond bosom their loss shall deplore;And my heart, unestrang'd, shall for ever be true To the maid of the cottage that stands on the moor.
