15
TO MARY IN HEAVEN.
Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher'st in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.
O mary, dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thon the groans that rend his breast?
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!
Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning, green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sing love on every spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.
Still d'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care:
Time but the impression stronger makes.
As streams their channels deeper wear.
