To Mary

Miss Porden

Alas! how wretched those who prove
The pangs of unrequited love
Who mourn in silence and alone
Nor dare to make their passion known.
’Tis true love is the sweetest flower
That graces hill, or mead, or bower
But thorns its verdant stem surround
And tears within its breast are found.
Thrice happy who the flower have drawn
Nor felt the venom of the thorn,
Have stooped to taste its odours rare
Nor soiled their bosoms with a tear.
While I am doomed each lingering hour
To feel the thorn nor find the flower
To shed the tears of tender woe
Nor hope’s delicious fragrance know,
Yet dearest maid one tender sigh
One glance of that expressive eye
Could peace to this sad breast restore
And joy impart unknown before.
Blest with thy love each happy day
On wings of joy should pass away.
And as we roamed thro’ life’s gay bower
We’d shun the thorn, but seize the flower
And thou shouldst bless till life’s decline
The morn that gave thee to thy Valentine.