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No more wilt thou feed from my hand,
No more, feigning sleep as I'm laid,
Pretty dear-pretty dear—pretty dear.”
'Twas a dream I wou'd fondly suppose―
I awoke ere the moment of death,
Pretty dear-pretty dear-pretty dear,"
If haply thy spirit shou'd roam,
Across the wide Indian sea;
Be it happy, more happy at home,
At home riper fruits it may find
Oh! where will the wanderer meet?
Adieu, my dear Lory, adieu!
But tell all the birds in your grove, No other will charm me like you, No other like you shall I love.
'Twas at that solemn hour of night When ghosts come forth to view; Perch'd on my chair a winged sprite, Aside my curtain drew.
"What business here, I sternly said,
"Dear lady, marvel not that I
"So soon am here again; "So swiftly do we spirits fly "Across the widest main.
Scarce had I bid in dying strain,
← I found myself alive again,
"Pois'd on the wing and on the ground, "In feather'd ranks did stand "My former friends, as soon I found, "To welcome me to land.
"With them I carol thro' the day
"Oh pretty dear—as wont I cry→→ "A Lory listning near,
"Advances and with tender sigh,
"Oh pretty dear-I cry again,→→→ "My love he thinks is true;
"Poor bird! he little knows this strain
"Sweet are the fruits, that here I find,
"And sweet is liberty;
"The cage and fruits I left behind, "How sweeter still with thee!
But see the dawn approaches fast
"One more kind kiss must be our last,
Thrice did my trembling tongue essay
But thrice the accents dy'd away
Inscribed on the back-ground of the case in which this beautiful bird is preserved.
"Oh pretty Pol-and pretty dear" Was all this bird could utter clear, And these you think might only be The words of lying vanity.
The relics of her beauty view
And own that all she said was true.
The twentieth year is well nigh past,
Ah would that this might be the last!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow➡
'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
Thy needles, once a shining store,
For though thou gladly would'st fulfil
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
But well thou play'd'st the house-wife's part; And all thy threads with magic art,
Have wound themselves about this heart,