Vain thy lover’s whisper’d charm;
Love can never death disarm;
Hush’d the song he oft hath sung,—
Weak his voice, his lyre unstrung.
Think, then, if so hard to heal
Is the anguish thou dost feel.
Think—how bitter is the smart
When that wound is in the heart!
‘ϵ . . .
Hampstead.
Notice.
The Index, &c. to the present volume of the Table Book will conclude the work.
I respectfully bid my readers Farewell!
*
