Then, if there be one heart so kind,
It mourns each hour the loss of me;
Shrinks, when it hears some gust of wind,
And sighs—“Perhaps a storm at sea!”
Oh! if there be an heart indeed,
Which beats for me, so sad, so true,
Swift to its aid, Oblivion, speed,
And bathe it with thy poppy’s dew;
My form in vapours to conceal,
From Pleasure’s wreath rich odours shake;