To Mary

Miss Flaxman

When the sun’s last parting beam,
Faintly glimmers on the stream,
And Fancy gives the waking dream;
 I think of thee!

When Cynthia her fair tresses laves,
In the cooling sea green waves,
Still faithful love each thought enslaves
 And fills with thee!

Each sense on Fancy’s wing can soar
For when upon the sandy shore
Amid the deafening tempest’s roar,
 Thy voice I hear!

And the stupendous mountains rise
To hide thee from my longing eyes,
All distance the fond heart defies
 Thou still art near!

Oh yes, ’tis memory’s magic power,
Which turns to sweet what else was sour,
And gilds with joy the passing hour,
 Tho’ far from thee!

Yes! dearest ’tis that inward light,
By hope reflected, yet more bright
That gives each vision of delight
 The form of thee!