Joy inexpressive with her tear she veils,
And weeps her transport, where expression fails.
TO A LADY, ON LEAVING HER AT SIDMOUTH.
Yes! I must go—it is a part
That cruel Fortune has assign’d me—
Must go, and leave, with aching heart,
What most that heart adores, behind me.
Still I shall see thee on the sand
Till o’er the space the water rises;
Still shall in thought behind thee stand,