MRS. SIGOURNEY'S POEMS.
137
FAREWELL.
Farewell! it hath a sombre tone,
The lip is slow to take it,
It seemeth like the willow's moan
When autumn winds awake it;
It seemeth like the distant sea
On some lone islet sighing,
And yet thou say'st it unto me,
And wait'st for my replying.
Farewell! thou fly'st from Winter's wrath
'Mid southern bowers to hide thee,
May freshest roses deck thy path,
Yet bring no thorn to chide thee;
And may'st thou find that better land
Where no bright dream is broken,
No flower shall fade in beauty's hand,
And no farewell be spoken.
