Song

Song

THE tears I shed must fall,

I mourn not for an absent Swain,

For thought may past delights recall,

And parted lovers meet again.

I weep not for the silent dead.

Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er,

And those they lov'd their steps shall tread,

And death shall join to part no more.

Tho' boundless oceans roll between,

If certain that his heart is near,

A conscious transport glads each scene,

Soft is the sight, and sweet the tear;

E'en when by death's cold hand remov'd,

We mourn the tenant of the tomb,

To think that e'en in death he lov'd

Can gild the horrors of the gloom.

But bitter, bitter are the tears,

Of her, who slighted love bewails,

No hope her dreary prospect cheers,

No pleasing melancholy hails:

Her's are the pangs of wounded pride,

Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy,

The flattering veil is rent aside,

The flame of love burns to destroy.

In vain does memory renew,

The hours once ting'd in transport's dye

The sad reverse soon starts to view,

And turns the past to agony;

E'en time itself despairs to cure,

Those pangs to every feeling due;

Ungenerous youth? thy boast how poor,

To win a heart - and break it too!

No cold approach, no alter'd mein,

Just what would make suspicion start;

No pause th' extremity between;

He made me blest, and broke my heart

From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn,

Neglected, and neglecting all,

Friendless, forsaken and forlorn,

The tears I shed must ever fall.

Miss Cranston (now Mrs. Dugald Stewart) wife of the celebrated Metaphysician of Edinburgh (Helen D'Arcy Stewart)

1:47, p. 188

1828.02.15

From Glasgow Paper