To Henry.

TO HENRY.

THY fatal form, where'er I go, Still swims before my sight; It dooms the day to restless woe, Of sleep it robs the night:

While thou art wandering far away, From all such sorrow free; Forgetting her, who, night and day, Can think of NOUGHT BUT THEE.

Yet, be it so! I would not cloud Thy days in gloom like mine; No .... though my life to grief be vowed, May constant bliss be thine!

I'll ne'er by looks, or language, speak The pang that preys on me; Nor shalt thou, if my heart should break, Suspect it BREAKS FOR THEE.