NOVEMBER 30
“Do those I love e’er think on me?”
How oft that painful doubt will start,
To blight the roseate smile of glee,
And cloud the brow, and sink the heart!
No more can I, estranged from home,
Their pleasures share, nor soothe their moans
To them I’m dead as were the foam
Now breaking o’er my whitening bones.
And doubtless now with newer friends,
The tide of life content they stem;
Nor on the sailor think, who bends
Full many an anxious thought on them.
Should that reflection cause me pain?
No ease for mine their grief could bring;
Enough if, when we meet again,
Their answering hearts to greet me spring.
Enough, if no dull joyless eye
Give signs of kindness quite forgot;
Nor heartless question, cold reply,
Speak—“all is past; I love you not.”
Too much has heav’n ordain’d of woe,
Too much of groans on earth abounds,
For me to wish one tear to flow
Which brings no balm for sorrow’s wounds.
Love’s moisten’d lid and Friendship’s sigh,
I could not see, I could not hear!
To think “they weep!” more fills mine eye,
And smarts the more each tender tear.
Then, if there be one heart so kind,
It mourns each hour the loss of me;
Shrinks, when it hears some gust of wind,
And sighs—“Perhaps a storm at sea!”
Oh! if there be an heart indeed,
Which beats for me, so sad, so true,
Swift to its aid, Oblivion, speed,
And bathe it with thy poppy’s dew;
My form in vapours to conceal,
From Pleasure’s wreath rich odours shake;
Nor let that heart one moment feel
Such pangs as force my own to ache.
Demon of Memory, cherish’d grief!
Oh, could I break thy wand in twain!
Oh, could I close thy magic leaf,
Till those I love are mine again!