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Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language utter'd in a dream;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright!
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary.

For could I view nor them nor thee
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,

Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet, gently prest, press geutly mine,
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,
That now at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st,

My Mary!

And still to love, though prest with ill;
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn out heart will break at last,

My Mary.


Now Spring returns, but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known;
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,

And all the joys of life with health have flown.

Starting and shiv'ring in th' inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,
Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclin'd,

And count the silent moments as they pass:

The wiriged moments, whose unstaying speed
No art can stop, or in their course arrest,

Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
And lay me down in peace with them that rest.

Oft morning dreams, presage approaching fate,
And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true;
Led by pale ghosts, I enter death's dark gate,
And bid the realms of light and life adieu.

I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe,
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore,
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,
Where mortals visit and return no more.

Farewell, ye blooming fields, ye cheerful plains! Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound, Where melancholy with still silence reigns,

And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.

There let me wander at the close of eve,

When sleep sits dewy on the lab'rer's eyes, The world and all its busy follies leave,

And talk with wisdom, where my Daphnis liesy

There let me sleep, forgotten, in the clay,
When death shall shut these weary, aching


Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,

Till the long night is gone, and the last mors arise.


View yon pale flower surcharg'd with dew,
That bends its lovely head to earth,
And seems, in Fancy's eye, to woo
The sod beneath, that gave it birth.

Its stem, which now can scarce sustain
The drops that on its blossoms weigh,
Shall soon its wonted strength regain,
Beneath the sun's reviving ray.

But thou, lost maid, whose fading frame
So slowly verges to the tomb,
And seems, in silent woe, to claim

A refuge in its darksome womb;

What sun shall rise thy griefs to chear,
Or o'er thy cloud of sorrow break?
What kindly warmth shall dry the tear
That falls adown thy pallid cheek?

What though thy words will not unfold
The cause, that prompts thy frequent sigh,
Too well, alas! those looks have told

That treacherous Love has bid thee die.

Oh yes, that power that gave thee breath
Shall view thy woes with pitying eye;

Shall bid each sorrow cease in death,
And call thee to thy kindred sky.

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