And, if I linger now afar,
'Tis fortune's hard decree—
Oh! were the dove's swift pinions mine,
How would I fly to thee.
Those charms, with memory's feeble light
On me would cease to beam;
Their rays, with present, perfect warmth,
Upon my heart would gleam.
Thus, by thy side, so sweetly near,
How blest to pass my life;