CAGED in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake A FAREWELL. 1800. ONCE more, enchanting maid, adieu! The sweet expression of that face, Yet give me, give me, ere I go, -Say, when, to kindle soft delight, A sigh so short, and yet so sweet? O say--but no, it must not be. THE Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore, Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew, True as the needle, homeward points his heart, This, the last wish that would with life depart, When Morn first faintly draws her silver line, Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er, But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail! 'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand! |