The setting sun still lingers in the mead,
And gilds the landscape with his parting beam;
Yon lowing heifers ‘ruminating’ feed,
And gentle breezes curl the winding stream,

Along whose banks, with lingering steps, I love
To wander, musing, at the close of day.
And now perchance my Edward here may rove,
To snare, with wily skill, the finny prey.

In fancy I behold him pensive bend,
Beside the river where tall woods are seen,
And o'er the glassy surface wide extend
Their soft reflected tints of early green.

The treacherous angle quivers in his hand,
But little does the wonted sport delight;
And oft ‘he gazes vacant’ on the land,
And oft the starting tear bedims his sight.

Ah! at this moment does he think on me?
Does he in silent solitude deplore
That unrelenting, that severe decree,
Which harshly told us we should meet no more?

Yes! Fancy brings his image to my view,
As when indignant Fortune bade us part:
Still paints him virtuous, noble, tender, true,
Just as he look'd when first he won my heart.

Alas! to think how very short a space
Divides us now!—we both perhaps may stray
Along this river,—and I now may trace
His wandering footsteps on the chalky way.

Mournful I gaze upon the rippling tide,
And lost in anguish'd thought, I senseless cry,
‘I envy thee, O stream! for thou wilt glide,
‘And meet the glances of my Edward's eye.

‘Should he upon thy mossy bank recline,
‘Sweet winding river! murmur in his ear
‘These vows sincere, these tender sighs of mine,
‘And tell him thou art fraught with many a tear;

‘Tell him, that though we must for ever part,
‘Through time and space his image will endure;
‘And still be cherish'd at my faithful heart;
‘For, like thy stream, my love is deep and pure.’
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