See still the little painted bark,
In which I row'd you o'er the lake;
See there, high waving o'er the park,
The elm, I clamber'd for your sake.
These times are past, our joys are gone,
You leave me, leave this happy vale;
These scenes, I must retrace alone,
Without thee, what will they avail.
Who can conceive, who has not prov'd,
The anguish of a last embrace?