“Fare thee well” — no artful numbers,
Here dissembled feelings tell,
Grief my faltering strain encumbers,
Friendship weeps to say, farewell.
While the Summer flowers are blowing
While the balmy zephyrs play,
While the billows, gently flowing
Sparkle in the golden ray,
Then I bid thee not remember,
Friends that mourn bereft of thee.
Mid the storms of dark December,
Then perchance thou’lt think of me.
Yes! whene’er the roaring ocean,
Every breast with terror fills,
When the winds in loud commotion
Sweep along the barren hills,
When the wither’d leaves are strewing
Fields they loved to shade of late,
Think that we thy loss are rueing
As the turtle mourns his mate.
Then perchance if ocean slumbers,
And the breezes softer blow,
Think the wail of Attic Numbers,
Echoed in his solemn flow.
Oh! be Health in every billow
May she breathe in every gale,
Soothe thee on thy tranquil pillow,
Guide thy wanderings thro’ the vale.
Give new sweets to every blossom,
Sorrow from thy side beguile,
Make the gleam on Ocean’s bosom,
Seem some friend’s remember’d smile.
Every day fresh beauties ravish,
Fairer than they seem’d before,
Nor on thee too fondly lavish,
All her rich invalued store,
But on those alike bestowing,
Objects of thy anxious cares,
Till thy heart with joy o’erflowing
Read thy weal, thy bliss, in theirs.
Then shall strains of Attic Mourning
Cease — thy vacant seat to see,
And with genial Spring returning
Joy shall find new Spring in thee.
April 24th 1816