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Oh! since thy angel form is gone,
My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone
Attempts, alas! to find in many. Then fare thee well, deceitful maid,
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor hope nor memory yield their aid,
But pride may teach me to forget thee. Yet all this giddy waste of years,
This tiresome round of palling pleasures, These varied loves, these matron's fears,
These thoughtless strains to passion's measures, If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd;
This cheek, now pale from early riot, With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; And once my breast abhorr’d deceit,
For then it beat but to adore thee. But now I seek for other joys;
To think would drive my soul to madness : In thoughtless throngs and empty noise
I conquer half my bosom's sadness.
In spite of every vain endeavour;
WELL! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too, For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly as it was wont to do. Thy husband's bless'd—and 'twill impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot; But let them pass-oh! how my heart
Would hate him if he loved thee not! When late I saw thy favourite child,
I thought my jealous heart would break, But when the' unconscious infant smiled,
I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.
Its father in its face to see ;
And they were all to love and me. Mary, adieu! I must away,
While thou art bless'd I'll not repine ! But near thee I can never stay,
My heart would soon again be thine. I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame, Nor knew, till seated by thy side, My heart in all,
-save hope, the same. Yet was I calm: I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look, But now to tremble were a crime;
We met-and not a nerve was shook.
I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with no confusion there; One only feeling couldst thou trace,
The sullen calmness of despair. Away! away! my early dream
Remembrance never must awake; Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream!
My foolish heart, be still or break.
'Tis done—and shivering in the gale
As some lone bird without a mate,
And I will cross the whitening foam,
The poorest veriest wretch on earth
I go—but wheresoe'er I flee
To think of every early scene,