I will not say I doubt thy flame,
For ah! I know I've felt the same,
The tender hopes and fears that dwell
In every breast that loves so well;
The warm solicitudes that keep
Their tyrant watch o'er banish'd sleep;
The pining thought that steals from home
With one lov'd object still to roam;
Despair that drinks the liquid tear,
The heart benumb'd by every fear;
Hope banish'd from the bosom's throne,
And the blank wishes left alone:
'Twas these that made me bid thee fly
To other scenes, to other sky.
Too well I know th' enchanting power
That lurks within the smallest flower;
If a lov'd eye its robes have seen,
Its coif of gold, and train of green;
A fancied charm fast binds the heart,
And with the flower we cannot part; —
"'Twas Anna's eye that dropp'd on thee,
Welcome then little friend to me!
'Twas here she prais'd thy soften'd hue,
'Twas there she sipp'd thy silver dew;
On this leaf bade me cast my eye;
On that she breath'd a tender sigh,
Which gave thy perfume to the air,
By far the sweetest incense there."
'Twas thus on scenes I lov'd so well
My fancy would for ever dwell,
Or know one moment's sweet repose
From the sad pangs of endless woes;
For memory walk'd the groves around,
I heard her voice in every sound,
That bade me in soft whispers see
Beside the brook — beneath the tree —
The object dear — so long deplor'd —
"Him whom I call'd my bosom's lord!"