THOU lingring star, with lessening ray,
That lovst to greet the early morn,
Again thou usherst in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hearst thou the groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can I forget,
Can I forget the hallowd grove,
Where, by the winding Ayr, we met,
To live one day of parting love!
Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past,
Thy image at our last embrace,
Ah! little thought we twas our last!
Ayr, gurgling, kissd his pebbled shore,
Oerhung with wild-woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar,
Twind amorous round the rapturd scene:
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray;
Till too, too soon, the glowing west,
Proclaimd the speed of winged day.
Still oer these scenes my memry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser-care;
Time but th impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear,
My Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy blissful place of rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hearst thou the groans that rend his breast?