That soon my words on absent charms will dwell;
That soon my thoughts remembered hours will love;
That soon my song of vain regrets will tell.
Then, in romantic moments, I will frame,
Some scene ideal, where we meet at last;
Where, by my peril, snatched from wreck or flame,
She smiles reward and talks of all the past.
Now for the lark she flies my wistful lay.
Ah, could the bard some winged warbler be,
Following her form, no longer would he say,