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But soon Reflection's power imprest
A stiller sadness on my breast;
And sickly Hope with waning eye
Was well content to droop and die:
I yielded to the stern decree,
Yet heav'd a languid Sigh for thee!
And tho' in distant climes to roam,
A Wanderer from my native home,
I fain would sooth the sense of Care
And lull to sleep the Joys, that were!
Thy Image may not banish'd be
Still, Mary! still I sigh for thee.
JUNE, 1794.
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