Not vain thy memory me pursued
Where’er I stray’d; with that imbued,
Troubling my hopes, my joys, my rest,
The thoughts my heart and soul oppress’d.
On the cold margin of the Thames,
Or Seine, I thought of thee, and sigh’d
Again to view the bank that gems
Thy Henil’s or thy Douro’s tide.
And if perchance my voice essay’d
Some gayer song, for short relief,